My fellow autistic wonder-folk, I wish to share with you the history of the family business–my family’s business. It’s a multi-generational, multi-regional business and yet, it’s also a well-kept, closely guarded secret of a business. I can’t begin to speculate on how it became such a wildly successful enterprise, given that most of you have never heard of it, but believe me, it’s been thriving for a long, long time. 

Legend has it that the company began in a shtetl somewhere in Poland, a shtetl where it was very cold, and the people kept warm by coming up with business plans and feeding the cookstoves with them. One of my illustrious ancestors, however, seems to have carved out a business plan in secret—a visionary plan—which he passed onto his firstborn son, who passed it onto his firstborn son, who passed it onto his firstborn son, and so on, and so on, ad nauseum, until this very old and very visionary business plan ended up in the duffle bag of a great-great-ancestor, who carried it with him in steerage when he set out for America.

To make a long story short, I grew up in the very heart of the family business. Although its true name was rarely spoken, I distinctly remember my mother making a joking reference to Take-A-Chance Airlines. Had the rest of the family not loudly shushed her at that moment, I would have forgotten the incident altogether, but shush her they did, and the secret was out: my parents owned a majority share in Take-A-Chance Airlines. Can you imagine the nausea excitement I felt? 

When I was small, of course, the company was barely out of start-up mode. It was limited to a few offices in a motel, a small apartment, and other decidedly unglamorous places. But as I grew, the company grew with me. By the time I was 11 years old, we had quite a fleet. I mean, the planes! Oh my God, you should have seen them! They were so shiny and so new, inside and out. There were purple plush carpets, purple upholstered chairs, valuable antiques, brand-new lava lamps, and a TV set for every passenger. It was unbelievable!

And you’ll never guess the best part. No. You won’t. I’m telling you. Are you ready?

They paid you to fly on the airplanes! Yes! They really did!  Sometimes, they paid you in cash that came in birthday cards; sometimes, they took you shopping for school clothes; and twice a year, they took you on an all-expenses-paid vacation to places like Florida, Bermuda, Nova Scotia, and Quebec. I don’t know how they managed to remain profitable by paying folks to fly with them, but the money kept coming in like nobody’s business. Of course, the CEO would complain at the dinner table that he was worried about finances, but from what I could see, everyone on those airplanes had all the comforts of home.

Well, most of them did. But not all. Oh, no. Not all. There were two small children, and they were not so very comfortable at all. They had beautiful seats on one of the biggest airplanes, but every now and then, someone would come over to the girl when she was sleepy and touch her in ways she didn’t like. And then sometimes, someone would come over to the boy or the girl and begin beating one of them for no apparent reason. And yet, miraculously, whenever a stranger came onto the airliner, the little girl would play the piano beautifully (yes, there was even a piano on the plane!) and the little boy would do his very best not to bring a hose through the window and flood the passenger area again.

Those were the days! Of course, there was a catch. It wasn’t called Take-A-Chance Airlines for nothing. While the fare was unbeatable, the planes seemed to tumble out of the sky on a regular basis. Sometimes, in the heady days of my youth, I would rush the cockpit, push all the buttons at once, lean into whatever would move, and get that baby back up into the air. But sometimes, I just didn’t know how to do it, and the plane would crash. I have the scars to to prove it. They’re not pretty, so I’m not including photographs. They’re mostly where you can’t see them anyway.

By the time I was in high school, I had started to wise up. I began carrying a parachute, a bedroll, a good pair of walking shoes, several days’ worth of water, and a map every time I got on a plane. I hid everything in my backpack, of course. I had to. You see, it was a well-known fact that on Take-A-Chance Airlines, the planes never crashed or even came close to crashing, which confused my little Aspie mind no end. However, I was smart enough to understand that if I carried a parachute in plane plain view, it might appear that the plane might crash, and then the whole family business would be ruined, all because of me. So I learned to mind my Ps and Qs, let me tell you.

By some miracle, I survived into adulthood. And then, one day, after one touch and one crash too many, I resigned my seat on the board of directors and left my interest in the business to my younger brother. From what I understand, he took over the business after our parents died, and he got their entire inheritance in the bargain.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. As I grew further and further away from the family business, I began to think more clearly about it. After paying people to listen to me rant and rave on a weekly basis for several years, I began to realize that the planes really had been crashing all those years, and that I wasn’t confused or crazy at all.

I want to say that the story ends there, and that I lived happily ever after, but I have two terrible weaknesses: 1) I am a very visual Aspie, and 2) I believe that somehow, somewhere, in one of the company’s regional offices, in a galaxy far, far away, there is a plane that will not crash. And so, after a long time away from the business, I began emailing distant family members on my mother’s side and asking them for old family photographs. Sometimes, I would get wonderful photographs, which I would gaze upon for hours on end. The words that came with the photographs were friendly enough, but I didn’t forge any new or close family relationships with their senders, so I began asking for photographs closer to home. With some desperation, I went to one of my uncles—just one of the innumerable family members who had never called to ask why I’d up and left the family business in the first place. I knew that contacting him was a foolish thing to do (kind of), but I really, really wanted those photographs.

And family. I wanted family. And a plane that wouldn’t crash. And I thought I’d found it when I first emailed my uncle. But I was wrong. As we emailed back and forth, the plane pitched and rolled worse than ever before. And while it was pitching and rolling, I found out that my parents had convened a family conclave in New Jersey, in which it was agreed that if one of their offspring, whose name begins with an “R,” were to contact any other family member for any reason, they were to put her on a plane that would begin its plunge the minute she began to relax and get comfortable.

And that’s exactly what happened.

As you can well imagine, the next several months of my life consisted of paying more nice people to listen to a spirited recitation of all the email exchanges that had taken place as the latest plane was diving into the ground. After awhile, I began to get hoarse, so I stopped talking and began to feel better. And when I began to feel better, I swore off doing stupid things like calling Take-A-Chance Airlines and using my real name to ask for a seat on a plane that wouldn’t crash.

For a while.

However, recently (I know, I know, you don’t all have to groan at once, do you?), I decided to toddle over to my father’s side of the business and see whether there might just be someone who had a little genealogical information and a whole bunch of a few really cool old family photographs of some kind or another. So I looked up people with my father’s surname on Facebook. You know, Facebook. Where you find your friends? And do social networking? What could possibly go wrong? I mean, there’s no sign that says, “Abandon hope, all ye Aspies who enter looking for unknown family members.” If there were a sign like that, I wouldn’t go near the place.

Anyway, as usual, my contact with my new family member started off nicely. I got settled into my chair. The handsome steward asked me whether I needed an additional Ativan to take the edge off my anxiety. I thanked him and said I’d take two. He gave me a glass of crystal clear spring water to wash them down. Everyone was cordial. I was cordial. I was. I was so fucking cordial,  I swear to God, every one of you would have mistaken me for an NT. Really. You want proof? Okay. Here’s proof:

My cousin Ralph (not her real name) sent me a packet of photos that arrived last Tuesday, December 22. Here is the email I wrote in response:

Hi Ralph,

I received the photos today. Thank you so much for sending them! I have been sitting in front of our woodstove, gazing at them. I especially love the ones with **personal family information excised for brevity…**

Again, thank you for sending the pictures. I’m really quite crazy about family photos of any kind, and have a whole wall of photos from my mother’s side of the family, going from my grandparents’ generation and back into the late 19th century.  I’m so glad to begin collecting photos from my father’s side as well.

All the best,
Cousin Rachel

Here is what Ralph wrote back by email the same day:

 Hi Rachel,

I am pleased that you are enjoying the pictures I sent.  I have many more and am experimenting with our new computer.  I think we have figured it out and am attaching some additional pics.  Please let me know if you get them and I will send others.

* Information about attached photos deleted for brevity *

When I hear from you, I will forward some more.  Hope you enjoy them.

Have a good evening.
Cousin Ralph

Here is what I wrote back by email the same day:

Ralph, these are gorgeous! I love them. THANK YOU!

Cousin Rachel

Did you notice the part where Ralph says she will forward more pictures when she hears from me? Five days later, I had not received a single picture. So, I remained my cordial, restrained, friendly self and wrote her the following email:

Hi Ralph,

I don’t know whether you got my previous message. I just want to make sure you know that the photos came through just fine, and that I really appreciate them.

All the best,
Rachel

Here is the response I received an hour later:

Enjoy

That’s it. One word. No salutation. No proper names. No punctuation. Nothing.  So, I figured I’d take one more careful crack at it (I know, I know, it’s getting pathetic already):

Thanks! I am.

The last time you wrote, you mentioned that you’d send more pictures once you learned that I’d received the ones you sent. Just checking in to make sure that all is well.

All the best,
Rachel

Now, I will freely admit that I am working with a couple of subtexts here. When I ask whether all is well, what I really mean is the following:

I hope no one has fallen gravely ill. I really do. However, in my heart of hearts, I know it’s more likely that you’ve been talking to my brother, or to my uncle (who just happens to live in the same town that you do), and that one of them has told you, in no uncertain terms, that I’m the most vile creature ever to walk the earth. And why do they say this? Because I got sick of being hurt by the two (count them, two) people in the family who were responsible for the unwanted touching and undeserved beatings of my childhood, and so I left them behind, and I saved my own life. And I’m sure that whoever you’re talking to has repeated the lie that those two people told everyone. What lie? That I’d written them a letter and told them that if they ever contacted me again, I’d call the police and accuse them of abuse—something that I never, ever threatened to do.

Why does no one believe me?

Oh, yeah, that’s right. The family business is called Take-A-Chance Airlines, my name starts with an “R,” and I always get the plane that crashes—except that the propaganda advertising for the business claims that none of your planes has ever crashed. So you’d better ignore me, because you might just have to acknowledge what really happened, and that would be outside your comfort zone.

Of course, I’m not going to elucidate the subtext to Ralph. At least, not right away.

Somehow, I don’t think I’m the one with the problem here. Except, of course, that I keep hoping to find someone who can stand outside the family business for more than a day or two. Someone simple, who uses words that mean something, and follows through on them. Someone like me.

My mistake.

© 2009 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg