Joshua

Prologue: The term “fell through the cracks”, is usually used to describe something that was lost or forgotten. It is used to describe innocuous items or tasks that are missing or were left incomplete. Sometimes, however, something you would think should be far more important falls through the cracks. Like people.

Now I know that this is something you’ve probably never considered before. I’m sure it’s happened to you at least once in your life. You go to the DMV and no one seems to be able to help you. You apply for unemployment insurance, only to have your paperwork get lost in the mail. You come up short on the rent or you’re moving and everyone you know is currently unavailable to help. You’re sick, and your insurance company is refusing to pay for a Dr. to treat you. Some might call it bad luck. I call it the “Tyranny of Bureaucracy”.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. These are just some small examples of the story am about to tell. This is the story of a person who fell through the cracks. He is forced to learn how to survive there. Though the events of his life are unique in nature, I am convinced that he is not alone. You see he cannot be forsaken because he’s not the only one.

In the Beginning…… Chapter 1

I was twelve the first time I heard his voice. But his creation, the beginning, happened long before that time. My first memory is the chalky taste of feces spread across what I can only assume was my underwear. I was too young to remember it clearly. It’s almost like remembering a dream, foggy and unclear.

I can’t be more than two or three. A woman is shoving those soiled underpants into my mouth. We are in an old red brick house. It is crumbling around the edges. There is an old rusted out maroon truck in the overgrown back yard. It looks like it was made in the forties, and could have been sitting there since that time. The picture in my mind is one of serene country living. But the feeling that this place evokes, paints an entirely different picture.

The white cotton briefs are being held in front of my face with a brown smear down the middle. The smell is revolting! There is a hand on the back of my head preventing my escape. I want to turn and move away, but I can’t. I’m held firm. She tells me to open my mouth. Oh, the smell. It makes me wretch involuntarily. She shoves the briefs into the back of my mouth. The chalky taste is so vial, I believe it is etched into my brain.

The next thing I can remember could have happened anywhere from a day to a year later. It’s hard to be accurate with memories from that age. I can’t really recall getting into the van, but the inside is unforgettable.

I’m being transported in the back of a black panel van with no rear or side windows. The only light is coming from the front of the vehicle. The bench-style seating is along the sidewall of the van which is unusual. Not that I have a lot of experience with vans. It is dark inside this one. There are two other passengers along for the ride. All three adults are dressed very smartly. They seem to be some kind of important people.

My only possessions are stuffed into a large black trunk with a gold frame. I could barely make out its edges sitting there in front of my feet. Between the trunk, the adult to my left, and the one opposite me to my right I can sense a definite feeling of claustrophobia. If I didn’t know any better, I would say we are headed to a funeral. Had I known a little more about my situation I might have thought better of it.

The trip lasts all of about an hour and a half. When we stop, ‘I’ finally get a chance to move my legs. I climb over the trunk towards the front of the vehicle. As they roll the side door open, the light floods in and illuminates the inside of the van. I climb out, dragging my trunk along behind me. It is very heavy. And I am very small.

We appear to have arrived at a little yellow house! It is a one-story ranch-style by the look of it. The front yard has a stone path leading from where I am standing to the front door. The yard is mostly dirt interspersed with clumps of yellow and green grass. To my right, I can see a cement driveway leading up to a garage door. There are some trees there on the other side. I can see the small greenhouse-style storage shed just past the chain-link fence that must surround the back yard. I wonder who lives here.

Taking in the scenery around me I notice that to my left, just across the street there is a huge junkyard! There are street signs that say Maricopa and Fairlane. Though the street might be a bit of a stretch in this instance, Maricopa isn’t even paved.

As we approached the front door following the stone path, I can see that the cement driveway is wrapped around to form a sidewalk leading to the door. The door opens, and a very large woman stepped out onto the walkway. To say she is obese would have been an understatement. She looks like a cross between Jabba the Hutt and Dolly Parton! ‘Betty Lenee Dexter’ is a very round Caucasian woman with a blond perm that largely resembled an Afro.

She opens her arms in a welcoming embrace. It’s a painfully belabored moment because I am dragging my trunk by me. Even if I had wanted to move more quickly there is no way that I can. She bends over to embrace me. It is not an entirely pleasant feeling. She proceeds to scoop me up with all the strain of a bear catching a fish. The woman’s girth alone is enough to smother me within the folds that make up a triangle between her breast and gut. When she finally releases me I turn just in time to notice the men in black loading themselves back into the van. I am ushered into the house as they pull away.

Betty would have to be in her mid to late fifties. From the decor and her taste in furnishings, this house is even more so. “How about a tour?” she says. The living room has a mud brown shag carpet with several throw rugs. The couch is green and covered in plastic. There is a recliner by the front door and this room leads into the dining room. There is a large TV encased in what looks like imitation oak. It separates this room from two large open doors that lead into where the garage should be. There is a dinner table in the dining area with a leaf extender. It has a white table cloth and 6 chairs set around it. Behind the table is a sliding glass door with a view of the backyard. From where I stand I can see that the yard has very little grass. There is a giant spool overturned. You know, like the kind they wrap industrial cable on. I can also see a cement slab complete with a basketball hoop. It looks like it is not very well maintained. But what do I know really? The kitchen has an L-shaped counter with a bar built-in. There are three barstools set in the dining area facing into the kitchen. The walls are plastered in yellow wall-paper with little flowers. Betty leads me through the kitchen and into the laundry room. As we pass through the kitchen I notice a fridge and pantry opposite the stainless steel sink. There is also a large freezer by the door.

“A place for everything, and everything in its place,” she tells me. The laundry room is small and cramped. Mostly a storage area from what I can tell. The washer and dryer are all white and covered in neatly folded clothes. The door to my left leads out to the back yard from what I can tell. To my right is another door. We take the door to the right and walk into a converted garage. There is a large wood-burning fireplace near the door and another door behind it leading to another storage area. There's a bunk bed and a bin for toys. “This is your room!” Betty tells me. “You will be sharing with Wayne.” Wayne Dexter looks up at me and smiles. “Hi!” he says. Betty turns to me and says, “Well, I guess I’ll leave you to get settled in.” She walks back the way that we came.

Thinking back on all of this now, I don’t think that I was mature enough to even ask the question, why. I just took it in stride and walked blindly into my new life.

I like Wayne almost immediately. He’s a simple-minded boy. It will be years before I learn that he has Down syndrome. Or, what Down syndrome is for that matter.