The Journal of Best Practices

by David Finch

  “Well, these little meltdowns are way more toxic and dramatic than the occasional argument,” Kristen said. “I can handle an argument, but I don’t do drama.”

  As we ate our lunches, I noticed that I felt more relaxed having talked through my issue. My jaw wasn’t clenched, my shoulders weren’t tight. I was having lunch with my family in a crowded restaurant and I felt happy. That’s when I realized we had just experienced our first victory. When the check arrived, I wrote a note to myself on the back of the receipt: Say it, don’t show it. Talking = productive. Showing = drama. Kristen doesn’t do drama. Then I wrote, Use your words.

  In that moment, I handed myself over to the process. I became more comfortable using words to express myself, Kristen became comfortable sharing her feelings with me in return, and it wasn’t long before we started seeing the rewards of our efforts. The most notable being that when something was bothering me—anger over a misunderstanding, interruptions to my daily routine, itchy shirt cuffs—I no longer felt as though anger had a physical hold on me. I no longer felt isolated, misunderstood, or hopeless. I could simply talk and know that Kristen would help me through it, no matter how big or small the problem was.

  The change didn’t happen overnight, of course, nor did it happen easily. The first obstacle we encountered was that I had no concept of the subtle, procedural aspects of communication—the unwritten rules of engagement—all of which had to be learned and recorded into my Journal of Best Practices. Not only did I have to learn how to express myself, I had to learn when to express myself. “Yes, we need to talk about our feelings,” Kristen whispered to me in the bathroom at my parents’ house on Easter, “but not right now at the dinner table in front of all your relatives.” Ask if it’s a good time to talk, I wrote later that evening, just beneath If you can’t tell whether you’ve offended her, just ask and Apologies do not count when you shout them.

  Another challenge lay in all the misdirected rage we had to deal with. Not Kristen’s rage, of course, but mine. She had been right; bottling up my anger for three decades had been a mistake. It was as if a dam had burst. Now that we were attempting to deal with things, all the pain of being misunderstood by and misunderstanding others was breaking free. Because of this, not every conversation went smoothly. I would ask Kristen where my phone was, for instance, and within half an hour we would be examining my innermost feelings about that award I received in second grade for having the messiest desk in the classroom. Nevertheless, Kristen maintained her end of the bargain and hung in there with extraordinary patience. More than once I found myself apologizing for hours of constant swearing, yelling, and dramatic weeping, while Kristen stood by like the cartoon coyote whose face had just been blackened by an exploding bomb and replied, “It’s fine. It’s all in the name of progress.”

  Asperger’s made it difficult for me to read Kristen properly—another roadblock. Using my words was one thing; interpreting hers was something else altogether. Harder still was trying to interpret what she wouldn’t say. Though I have yet to master this skill, and perhaps never will, I did commit to reaching at least a functional level of mind reading. I eventually got there, but not without months of unnecessary, painful eruptions. My tendency had been to enter into our emotional discussions like a raw nerve; nearly everything could provoke an extreme reaction. Kristen would take a second longer than I thought necessary to answer a question, and I’d explode: “Silent treatment?! Fuck it! I’m outta here.” Now that we are aware of my propensity to misread things, Kristen takes these outbursts in stride, while I do my best to preempt them: Calm down. Don’t assume you know what she’s thinking. Use your words.

  To overcome all of this, Kristen suggested strategies for recognizing and dealing with my emotions in real time, telling me when I had reacted inappropriately and showing me different ways to respond to my feelings. (Again, but worth repeating, this was something that she had never bargained for.) When I came unglued one evening because the kids had gone to bed late—eight fifteen instead of the normal seven thirty bedtime, pushing my entire evening schedule back forty-five minutes—Kristen sat me down and worked me through it:

  “Listen. It’s okay for you to expect a certain bedtime, and it’s okay for you to get upset. But it is not okay for you to rant and rave in front of the kids when we stay up later than usual. They’re absorbing everything you do. They’re learning by your example, so if you’re not careful we may end up with two little spazzes on our hands.”

  As I cracked open my notebook to write down some thoughts, she suggested a better way of dealing with bedtime: “If you start feeling freaked out, you have to tell me, ‘It’s almost bedtime. Let’s get them ready.’” Or, she told me, if I really wanted to take a step in the right direction I could simply get the kids ready for bed myself. (Duh.)

  While Kristen worked diligently with me on expressing my emotions, I began to take a keen interest in casual conversation. Before we started all of this, the ability to talk casually with people seemed to me to be on a par with the ability to juggle or to do a headstand. As my ability to express myself improved, I couldn’t help but think that I could extend this discipline to casual conversation. I figured that could make life easier for me in untold ways. I also suspected that if I were generally better at talking to people, then Kristen would like me more.

  But I wasn’t born with the gift of gab. Instead, I was born with something along the lines of anti-gab: my instincts don’t just inhibit productive interaction, they defeat it altogether. I might laugh at inappropriate times, or meow. I sometimes win my audience over in one sentence and alienate them in the next: “I hope your sister is doing better since her divorce. I mean, let’s face it, she was lucky to have found anyone, really.”

  Luckily, my brain does an excellent job of observing people and memorizing and copying their behaviors. Kristen has said that I sometimes resemble someone with a multiple personality disorder and that I should be grateful for it, and I suppose she’s right. I use the characteristics I observe in other people to create characters that I can assume at will: Outgoing Man, Boyfriend Guy, Quiet Dude. This ability helps me to seem normal enough to get by in life, but I knew that I could do better, especially considering the progress I’d made in the first couple of months after my diagnosis.

  I decided that I needed a role model—someone I could study, from whom I could learn. I had always listened to Howard Stern in the mornings, and if he could earn millions of dollars for making four-hour conversations sound interesting, it seemed a good place to start. I began taking notes about what made Howard so effective at communicating, though this was always at the expense of being on time for work. My boss wanted to know why he could see me sitting in my car in the parking lot at ten o’clock on a Monday morning, nodding my head and scribbling in a notebook. I suppose he thought I should be attending his weekly department meeting, but I had something more important to do: Howard works methodically through his anecdotes and uses interruptions by others to his advantage. Pacing and flexibility = critical.

  Then I expanded my range. I studied David Letterman, Oprah Winfrey, Regis Philbin. Emulating these talk-show celebrities may sound corny, but these people made conversing look so easy on their shows. These were the leading experts. These were the people from whom I needed to learn.

  Because I’m typically on the fringe of a discussion, nodding my head and praying for it to be over, or at least for it to be my turn to talk about something, I am completely fascinated by those who can do it with ease. Watching a great conversationalist in action is, to me, as captivating and entertaining as watching top athletes or ballroom dancers. Great conversationalists engage with their entire bodies. They supplement their words with calculated, expressive eye contact. They don’t judge the people they’re talking to, but rather encourage honest and open discourse. Great conversationalists ask questions that motivate others to keep speaking, rather than questions that can be answered with a terminating yes or no. When it comes to perso
nal questions, they know the difference between those that are relevant and those that seem creepy and intrusive; they avoid the latter. If they aren’t intrinsically interested in a person or a topic, they don’t turn around and walk away midsentence like I do. They feign interest, and they do it convincingly: “Now, was this the first time your mother had ever been to Duluth?” They finish their sentences, and they know when to move on. In other words, they do everything I don’t.

  Conversation involves reciprocity and timing—neither of which comes naturally to me. So I absorbed the patterns that emerged between my new role models and their celebrity guests. I learned to integrate the rhythms and the melodies of their voices. And then I’d try out the patterns with various people throughout my day.

  I was Regis discussing a recent bus accident with Kristen: “You know, I was watching the news earlier this morning, the coverage of the bus collision, and I have to tell you . . . sometimes tragedy strikes and you wonder how something like this could happen to so many innocent people. My thoughts and prayers are certainly with the victims and their families.” Prompting Kristen’s “What on earth are you talking about?”

  I was Howard getting to the bottom of a coworker’s love life: “Now, let me back up for just a second, if I may. You said—because we’ve talked about this in the past, and I think it’s an important point, in the sense that . . . you say you need to feel loved by women. Would you say this is true? In other words, you feel as though you need a woman to be interested in you. Am I right about this? So, when did you start to sense that your girlfriend was interested in you sexually? And I’ll tell you why I’m asking . . .” Prompting, “Dude, seriously?”

  I was Oprah giving a lecture on digital audio topics to an audience of technology directors and engineering managers: “We’re talking today about digital audio technology, a topic which is at the forefront of today’s consumer landscape. It’s in our cars, it’s in our phones, it’s in our fire alarms . . . people, and yet, many of us don’t realize just how many formats are available. Well, today, we’re having a discussion about where some of these audio formats came from, and what we can expect . . . in the not-too-distant future. Let’s take a look.” This, for some reason, prompted a request for a bathroom break and my boss’s quiet recommendation that I tone it down and act more normal.

  I was Letterman being overly affable and playfully condescending at a summertime picnic with Kristen’s entire family: “Oh, my goodness, what do we have here? Man oh man, I don’t care how many times I’ve said it, I don’t care how many bowls I’ve eaten, I don’t care if it’s served hot, or cold, or stirred up in the pot there . . . I’ll say it again, boys and girls: I love a green bean casserole. Who’s with me?” While that line may have garnered Letterman a bass-guitar rip and a rim shot, it got me only a few uneasy chuckles and an extra helping.

  I thought I’d come up with a clever strategy, something that I could use in any social situation, but Kristen quickly put an end to it. At home, anyway. It was for the best. Every time she opened her mouth, I would talk-show her to death. “What, am I on set now?” she’d ask. “Can I talk a few minutes longer or do you need to go to commercial?”

  I now use the technique only when Kristen’s not around, mostly for business meetings and phone calls. I’ve even expanded the idea to include behind-the-scenes preparation and research. Successful talk-show hosts always have their material ready—they do their homework and are well-versed in their subject matter. Before any important phone call or meeting, I now take an hour or two—however long it takes, really—to think about and research whatever subject I’ll be discussing. It’s also helpful to script out a number of possible conversations, using what I feel would be potential questions from the other parties: What do you hope to achieve in this meeting? Who should be involved in this decision? Is the sombrero idea really necessary? It helps me to organize my thoughts and to feel more prepared. More confident.

  I use a similar strategy to sort out complex personal issues, often when I’m in the shower. If I need to get to the bottom of something—my true feelings about capitalism, for instance—I interview myself. I become the host and the guest simultaneously, and usually by the time my segment comes to an end, I’ve made a number of profound personal discoveries.

  Kristen, the kids, and I were driving to my parents’ house one afternoon a few months after my diagnosis when I pointed out what I felt was the final stumbling block in our quest to improve communication. Namely, I worried that by talking more, we would uncover things about ourselves that were best left unexplored.

  “Like what?” she asked.

  Without going into specifics, I told her that I knew at some point I’d have to talk about some difficult things: my own feelings of inadequacy, feelings of regret for not being the husband I thought she should have, feelings of disappointment in our marriage. Thoughts that had been occupying my mind for months—some of them for years—and I didn’t want to carry them around any longer. They were a burden, and I didn’t know if I should consult her, or a doctor, or what.

  “Okay,” she said, carefully applying some eyeliner in the visor mirror. Apparently my revelation was nothing earth-shattering.

  “The thing is,” I continued, “I don’t know how I can sort out these things without talking to you, and if I can’t resolve these particular issues, then we’ll always be facing the same problems over and over.”

  She adjusted the visor and checked her lipstick. “You have to understand that if there’s something that’s really bothering you, then you can always—no matter what—come to me and discuss it,” she said. “We both have issues, and that’s why we’re doing all of this. So we can talk about it.”

  “Right,” I said. “I’m just afraid that if I open all these doors, then you’re going to see some pretty heavy things and . . . you know . . .”

  “And what?” she asked, closing the visor. She was looking at me now. Out of nowhere, my eyes started watering up. She grabbed my hand and held it in her lap. “What is it?”

  “I’m afraid that if I bring all this shit to you, you’re going to think I’m a total freak and leave me, and I swear to God, I can’t do this without you. You can’t leave me. But I don’t know who else to talk to about this stuff.” I was crying now, and we were three minutes from my parents’ house. I’ve got Asperger syndrome, but it doesn’t have me!

  “Dave,” she said, “first of all, do you know me? You have to know that I will never leave you. For any reason. And second of all, I’m not going to judge you for what’s on your mind. I’m willing to talk about anything, especially something that’s important to you.”

  I nodded and watched as the pavement, trees, and rooftops melted and blurred through my tears. “So, it’s not crazy to talk to you about my insecurities?”

  “No crazier than pretending to be a talk-show host all day long.”

  I kissed her hand. “I love you so much.” We drove a few more minutes, circling the neighborhood in silence while I pulled myself together. There was so much to say, so much to thank her for, and yet, at that moment, so few words I needed to use.

  Chapter 3

  Get inside her girl world and look around.

  Now that Kristen and I were talking more, it was becoming increasingly clear just how much we had lost touch with each other. Our conversations were often emotional and cathartic, which was necessary for rebuilding our partnership. But there’s a lot of friendship to be gained in the little stuff—what’s your favorite cheese, how is your project coming along at work, that sort of thing. We needed a respite from therapeutic discussion, but often we found ourselves groping for viable topics.

  “Did I tell you that I had lunch with April?” she’d ask.

  “Yep.”

  Half an hour would pass, and Kristen would laugh about something she was reading on her computer.

  “What are you reading?” I’d ask.

  “Oh, just this thing.”

  We couldn’t seem
to find the common ground on which our relationship had begun. I couldn’t bring myself to discuss my job, as I never particularly cared for it to begin with. When I did have a story to tell about work, she’d stumble over people’s names (“Wait, Ben and Benjamin aren’t the same person?”), or she’d get lost in the technical terminology (“So, anyway, I had to discuss thermal dynamics vis-à-vis semiconductor operation with this Six Sigma engineer”). I may as well have been barking like a seal. My standard line of questioning relating to her day usually sounded so mechanical and awkward that she could never quite get into it: “Yeah, it was a good day. Notable? I wouldn’t say notable. Quantify it how, Dave? You mean, score it on a scale of one to ten? I guess my day was, like, a six or seven. No, ten being the best. Listen, can I call you later?”

  In such chilling moments, when I’d found myself hoping—praying—to get carjacked by Charlie Sheen so that I’d have something to share at dinner, I had to wonder what had gone so wrong. Are we really this out of sync with each other? When did that happen?

  When Kristen and I were friends, being compatible was easy. We loved driving around, trying to get lost. We loved watching people trip and slam into things. Common ground, it seemed, was everywhere.

  As friends, it didn’t matter much that Kristen was a girl with very girly interests—things that I knew nothing about. No one in my life was as girly as her. Not even former girlfriends had been so girly. The girls I had dated before Kristen tended to be artsy, outdoorsy—they weren’t the sorts of people who would rapidly fan their faces with their hands whenever they became emotional or who enjoyed shopping.

  Kristen’s girl world was foreign and curious to me, so I paid close attention to it. It was cute, in a way. My God, how many ponytail holders does a person need? I wondered once, rooting through her coat pocket for a stick of gum. Spending time with Kristen was one thing, but whenever she threw her girlfriends into the mix, I felt as though I were visiting some remote civilization I’d only read about in National Geographic. “You mean, you actually share clothes with each other when you go out? I thought that was a myth.”