The cheese stands alone

There's a little boy in Sam's class who has always puzzled me. He's a funny little guy who has the appearance and mannerisms of a rat. Now before anybody takes offense at the audacity of me comparing a child with special needs to a rat... just stop... because you haven't seen him. He does bear a striking resemblance to a rat. There's nothing wrong with this either. Unless you find rats to be particularly vile and disgusting creatures then there should be no issue with simply pointing out that an individual shares an uncanny likeness to a small, furry rodent. Have we cleared up the whole political incorrectness crap? Because I do like this little boy. Okay, so part of my affection for him does come from the entertainment value he provided for the week I spent in Sam's class. Shit, there I go again. I feel like I have to clear the air once more. Forget it. He's a cute kid, special, a real dear, a true angel. Have I got the special needs party line down yet? You've heard it before. He's a real blessing... but he still reminds me of a rat!

So the whole time I was in Sam's class this little boy was busy. He always seemed like he had something to do or somewhere to be. He had a plan. You could tell this by the way he would lay his index finger next to his mouth and pause for but a second. Then he would set off to carry out whatever it was that he had been scheming up. But the end result was never to his satisfaction... and he would stop and re-start the activity then stop again... only to pause with his finger aside his mouth to think things through once more. Meanwhile he would make little grunting noises as if caught up in the effort of the plan. It was like watching a rat in a box maze frantically searching for the right path that led to the cheese. Turning this way and that, hitting a dead end, going back to the beginning, rushing and twitching for that cheese. Only for this little boy it was becoming quite clear that there was no cheese at the end. He never seemed to find satisfaction with his plan. Then one day he tried to engage me in his impossible plan. With my hand in his he led me around the classroom. Over to the light switch. Was I to turn it on? Off? No no... that wasn't right. We went back to the beginning. To the light switch again. Still the solution did not appear. So we tried the refrigerator. Nothing. Hand me the toy phone then. Shall I talk on it? Do you want to? No, not that one? How about this block? Oh, back to the phone. The block. The phone. The light switch? Finally I said, "I'm done getting the run around. I'm stopping this madness and staying right here." He stopped and looked up at me with his beady eyes. Then he took my hand once again but I wouldn't budge. He pulled and instead of yielding I twirled him around. And again I twirled him until his little face lit up almost into a smile. I'm on to something, I thought. So I twirled him again and saw him smile for the first time. Then he nudged me while still holding my hand and I twirled for him. Together we twirled and I heard him laugh. We twirled several times until I began feeling dizzy but I didn't want to stop because I realized that this was the longest I had seen him participate in any one activity and it was good to hear him laugh. I was dizzy and happy and he was happy and dizzy and together I think we found the cheese.