THE WAVE

1165 words THE WAVE

         It all began when Derrald made the unconscious decision to wave both of his hands in the air: a simple move, a spontaneous move. Why not? He'd learned from years of watching people that most everyone reacted favorably to waves. There was no need or expectation of getting close to someone. A quick wave of the hand was a universal greeting, an acknowledgement that someone had been noticed. It also triggered a similar response. Hello, I see you. Are you waving at me? No words exchanged. No need to do more or accept more. A gesture with no strings attached.                              

         Derrald liked simple. He wanted to be friendly, but not too friendly. Smiling hadn't worked for him. It made him feel uncomfortable. Why did people show their teeth to him? When he tried it they stared at him. Some had snarled, " What are you smiling at?" He was confused.                                                                                                                        

         The "what are you looking at?" made no sense. Was he supposed to answer? It wasn't staring if he didn't look them in the eyes. Eye contact might mean having to speak and he never knew what to say.                                                                                                              

         Questions, there were always questions. Derrald didn't always have the right answers. "What's the matter? Are you deaf? Cat got your tongue?" Of course not, how silly. Derrald didn't want to hem and haw, and he didn't want to speak until he had something important to say. He was busy thinking and watching.                                                                      

         People just fascinated Derrald. They were loud, bright, and never still. He heard them chatter, shout, whistle, scream, sob, and sing. A kaleidoscope of activity swirled and pulsated around him, wherever he went. Always, someone was walking or running or skipping or cycling or skateboarding or roller-blading. They never stopped.                                                            

         Young men might high five, fist and chest bump, or wrestle and scuffle. Older men seemed to hold their hands out to each other and shake them, maybe pat each other on the back. Couples held hands and kissed. Young girls might walk shoulder to shoulder or with their arms linked. Many people were huggers.                                                                                

         Derrald had experienced hugs. He didn't like them. They made him squirm and sweat. He stiffened when Grandma insisted on hugging him. It was a smothering sensation. He didn't understand why people squeezed each other.                                                                      

         Just like hugging, kissing was a mystery to Derrald. Was it a greeting? It seemed messy. Adults kissed kids. Adults kissed adults. No one seemed to care if anyone saw them. What did this have to do with a candy kiss? What did Don't Kiss and Tell mean? Was The Kiss of Death something terrible? He'd heard yells of "kiss off". His parents spoke of a kiss and making up. None of this made any sense.                                                                                                    

         Whistling appealed to Derrald. He really liked the sound of a whistle. It was a sharp noise that carried and cut through everything else. Like a siren, people noticed it. No need to yell or get up in someone's face. A whistle was a neutral greeting from a safe distance. Cabbies and bus drivers did it. Construction workers whistled.                                                            

         Derrald knew he could whistle. It took some practice and, in a short time, he had mastered the same whistle he heard the construction guys use. His warehouse job was the perfect place for just such a whistle.                                                                                                    

         The first time he whistled at the blonde lady from the office, he didn't think she heard it. The guys seemed to like it though. They laughed and cheered. For days, every time he saw her walk through the warehouse, Derrald whistled at her, as loud as he could. Always, the guys clapped.                                                                                                                                  

         Once, she actually walked up to him, but she wasn't smiling and she didn't say hello. The blonde lady asked him to stop whistling at her. As she walked away, the guys hooted. Derrald knew what to do and he whistled again.                                                                                

         Later, Derrald was approached by a man in a suit and tie. He could see that the blonde lady had returned and she was staring at him with her arms crossed. Derrald answered yes when the man asked if he'd whistled at the lady. No, Derrald didn't know about sexual harassment. No, he didn't think whistling was bad. No, he'd never heard of a wolf whistle. Derrald wasn't sure what termination meant. The man said words like "hostile environment", "discrimination", and "grounds for dismissal". Derrald was told to go home and never come back to the warehouse.                                                                                                    

         He found a new job with new people to try to understand. After a few days, he was sure he knew what to do. Derrald had observed one girl being tickled. She seemed to like it. She would squeal and giggle even though she shouted, "Stop it. Stop it."                                                  

         One shift, Derrald saw his chance. The girl passed him in the kitchen with both of her arms raised over her head. He made his move, tickling her armpits with a "coochie coo". Her squeal was more of a high-pitched scream. Dozens of iced doughnuts rained down around him. Both he and the girl jumped when the heavy metal tray clattered to the floor. There was no giggling--none at all.                                                                                                              

         This time he was told about "inappropriate behaviour", "personal boundaries", and "loss of product". Again, Derrald heard a man in a tie tell him to go home and never come back.                                                                                                                                  

         So, Derrald had found new things to do. He discovered that he liked to drive. He liked the steering, the accelerating, and he even liked the braking. He felt like he was doing something. Following a road, turning a corner, and peering through the windshield just seemed right. He could still watch people and be moving. He could wave at fellow drivers.                    

         Eventually, Derrald was introduced to a motorcycle. The wind on his face and the rumble in his ears made him feel like he was flying. Just a shift in his weight caused the bike to respond. It was a carnival ride that he controlled.                                                                      

         He was a biker. He had the helmet, the dark sunglasses, and a leather jacket. Bikers understood. Derrald was one of them. Every biker was a comrade. Every biker had to be acknowledged and return a wave.                                                                                          

         Derrald had been feeling especially exuberant when he'd received a flurry of highway salutes from a passing posse of motorcyclists. He tried to remember that elation, that validation, as he struggled to concentrate on the police officer's questions.                              

         Derrald was somewhat aware that he was lying in a ditch and his motorcycle was crumpled nearby. His arm hurt. It throbbed more than the rest of him. He had a vague recollection of waving at another biker, a lone biker travelling in the opposite direction across the divided highway. Derrald had felt so exhilarated, so alive, and so connected with all bikers. His two-handed wave was a reflex born of pure spontaneity. Derrald couldn't recall if his fellow biker had returned the wave.