Through the lens of a Level 1 Autistic Individual

Between jobs and with a dream of Clown College, I took the opportunity to be a vendor with the Disney on Ice Peter Pan Tour on its "rodeo route" from just after Thanksgiving 1991 in Boise, ID to Easter 1992 in Baltimore (the last two stands were with the Ringling Bros and Barnum & Bailey Circus at two of their largest arenas of that tour). Chicago and Boston was the Time Machine Tour where we went on loan while Peter Pan went to New York City, where there were union vendors. I got to see the broad spectrum of places and people, including my first-ever visits to Canada! My talents don't include sales, so while I did OK, the disappointment of having customers holding off until a favorite vendor arrived, or dealing with various artificial constructs of implied castes. I'll remember the cities and kind people favorably, but have no desire to run the seats to try to sell souvenir mugs full of shaved ice or bags of cotton candy that constantly dropped from the pole used

The football sails towards me. It might as well be a rocket from the hashmarks on Scrimmage thirty yards up field. My gloved hands clutch it, and my arms absorb the momentum, bringing the ball to my chest. I see it there, through the plastic of my isolator suit helmet. My name is scrawled on the ball, just above where my fingers would grip the stitches for a pass. The sound of the sterilized air rushing in from the hose at the top of my bubble can't block the joyous sound of my father yelling 'solid catch, son!' and his hands clapping for the return pass. [I wrote this five years ago during my struggle to replace the sadness of not having a true father figure in my childhood with cosplay experiences which only became a struggle for inclusion]