Saturday, May 24, 2008

In which an experience is shared.

Is it really just blood? I had known him for all eighteen years of his life, and I had never been able to really connect with my cousin Nathaniel. Despite being my only biological cousin on my Mother's side, and the closest to me in physical proximity, he has always been the most distant. It's not his fault or mine. It's inevitable and, in some ways, natural.

Nathaniel, you see, is autistic.

He doesn't care too much for my attention, conversation, or affection, and so there has been very little that we could do with or for one another to forge a familial bond. What little fate has allowed us to share has taken the form genetic code and the occasional meal.

On May 22nd, 2008, we were granted a chance to be family.

It started, I believe, with the outfit.

Kitty and I drove down to my Aunt's house in Spanish Fork. We arrived at seven. Over the last year and a half, Nathaniel had been preparing with mounting impatience for this very day, hour, and second. Our conversations had centered around this moment, and the secrets it would uncover, on its possibilities, its promises, and the hopes we had in them. 

He emerged from the house in a battered fedora and leather jacket (acquired over several years as a faithful patron of Walt Disney World) and asked, flatly "Are you ready?"

I had known for a few weeks that we would be taking Nathaniel to see the latest Indiana Jones flick, but until that very moment I hadn't been truly excited about it. Seeing my cousin's naked enthusiasm for what he hoped would be the cinematic experience of his life was too much for even the willful cynicism of a jaded movie-goer like myself. I was moved. I was excited.

"Oh, we're ready."

We swapped Indy trivia as we waited in line for our seats. Our tickets grew damp in the grip of our anxious, perspiring fists. After we took our seats, popcorn was procured, drinks were doled out, candy was distributed. We were ready. Each new trailer that spilled across the screen to herald the feature was met with a question, "When is the MOVIE gonna start?!?"
"Just a few more minutes, Nathaniel."

Then it started. It didn't take us immediately. It seemed, at first, insubstantial, like a revenant from my childhood, a blurry moment not quite remembered. Did his shirt used to fall on him like that? Is his voice different? Bit by bit, it came together, and we were back there, kids in my parents living room again, going around the world with Indy and a bag of popcorn. He moved with the same sort of torpid ferocity, a kind of clumsy grace that makes him more human, more real than the artfully choreographed, artificial, acrobatic action stars of contemporary cinema. This was no dancer. He was a man, and he smiled like an old friend making a private joke.

We had been floating suspended in nostalgic ecstasy for some time when Nathaniel leaned towards me and whispered with absolute reverence, 

"This is the first time I've seen Indiana Jones in a theater." 

"Me, too."

So we sat in the dark and soaked up the magic of it. We didn't pay attention to the filmmaking. We didn't think about the shots or the editing or even the acting, really. Nathaniel and I just enjoyed the novelty and the charm of it, of two very young adults finally sharing a childhood together, feeling connected, enjoying on the same level and for the same reasons a joint experience which made them, in a way that their blood could not, family.

Later I would think about the craft that went into it, the structure of the story, the use of visual effects, the consistency of this film with its earlier iterations. Later I would talk with my friends about the unpolished physicality of the Indiana Jones fight sequence, the believability of Ford's performance, and the marketing of nostalgia. I would talk about, think about those things at a later time, with other people. In the moment, however, it was only the ride, Nathaniel, and me, sitting in the dark. Friends. Cousins. Family.

2 comments:

i'm eric armstrong said...

i like your alliterations. i know deep down inside you were hoping someone would notice - rather, consciously appreciate it. i did and do.

i'm eric armstrong said...

yes. 2:41 am