Almost all of my interactions with differently abled people occur at the YMCA. Tuesday morning, while showering, shaving, and getting dressed for work, I surreptitiously listened  to a dude rapping non-stop. Clearly on the autism spectrum, I enjoyed how he rhymed away oblivious to those around him.

Same thing this morning. From the showers I heard, “There’s money all around you, one million right there in the air. . . I am the source and a force” and something about “breaking legs”. Then he suddenly appeared at the blow dryer.

Ron: That’s really good stuff. Is it other people’s or your own?

Free Styler somewhat taken aback: What, my free-styling?

Ron: Yeah. Is it your own stuff?

Free Styler: Yeah, it’s all mine.

Ron: It’s really good.

Free Styler: Thanks.

Ron: Do you perform?

Free Styler: Yeah, all the time.

Ron: Where?

Free Styler: At home. In my studio. I don’t like people. I hate performing for people.

Ron: Cool. It’s really good stuff.

I’m not bullshitting, the guy is talented, but few will ever know that.

Given the (understandable) tendency of artists to market their stuff to the hilt, I dig the image of my new acquaintance sitting in his home studio throwing down original rhymes for hours on end. I’d love to eavesdrop on a session, but know an invitation will not be forthcoming. And that’s okay. Knowing his art enriches his life is consolation enough.