“My son is autistic.” I heard the defensiveness in my voice, but also the plea. “Please don’t do anything, or say anything until I get there”

“G

everet Leibenson? I’m calling from the Israeli police. Your son—”

“Is Chezky okay?” I cut him off. “Where is he?” Was I running to the local precinct? What had Chezky done this time?

“I’m here on Rashi street. Your son apparently has been shoplifting many times from the local makolet located on this street. I need you to come down here immediately.”

“My son is autistic.” I heard the defensiveness in my voice, but also the plea. “Please don’t do anything, or say anything until I get there.”

Slamming down the phone, I raced the few blocks to the makolet, right around the corner from Chezky’s school.

There are times when looking at Chezky, an outsider cannot tell anything is off. He’s extremely good-looking, with fine features, blond hair, blue eyes. The type of kid you’d think, Wow. Pooh pooh pooh. (You find this attribute often with ASD; I like to think it’s Hashem cushioning the nisayon with this cake frosting.) And this seemingly run-of-the-mill, kid-next-door appearance led most strangers to assume that all was A-Okay in his head as well.

Like the bus driver who once yelled at Chezky for taking too long with his change.

“You can’t talk to me like that,” Chezky had retorted without batting an eyelash. “I’m autistic, and you could get arrested!”

Was Chezky now about to be arrested??