How James faked out the CIA...or the KGB...still a mystery  − 15 June, 1974

Autistic people like my brother tend toward repetitive actions---listening to the same song over and over, rocking back and forth, manipulating a pen or other object in their hand for hours on end. Some theorize that such repetition or routine (nods to Rainman) helps them structure time and space. It's almost feeling like they're going to fly apart if they don't engage in whatever activity, mania if you will, that allows them to define the boundaries of time and perhaps their own skin.

James tears up newspaper.

Forget for a moment the irony (especially given today's news) of tearing up a newspaper in order to make sense of the day. James had a very special way in which he shredded the Sunday paper. He'd take a section, tear it neatly in half, tear the halves into quarters, and so forth until he had a collection of ribbons. Then he would pop off postage stamp sized squares from the ribbons until he had a grand pile. Daily papers took about 15 minutes. A Sunday paper with all the supplements and ad pages(tres juicy in his mind) took longer.

Obviously, this made a hell of a mess so my parents trained him to stuff the shredded squares of newspaper into a Hefty garbage bag and take it out to the front curb for eventual collection. Cleaning up must've closed the logical loop for him so it was incorporated into his system and on occassion, it actually had advantages. I fed him a bad report card once.

Over time, various aunts and uncles learned to save their newspapers for when we came visting. It was recycling 1970s style.

It was also the midst of the Cold War, Watergate, and a general meltdown of trust in public institutions.

During the summer of 1974 we went to Washington D.C. to take in the sites and visit my uncle Jack, who had the distinction of owning the closest private residence to the Russian embassy. It was a fine townhouse about four or so blocks away. Jack bought the house long before the Russians moved in and he no doubt sat on a nice piece of property. The neighborhood had its collection of diplomatic missions, long limos with tinted windows, and generally unsmiling men whose job was to stand next to automobiles lest other men tampered with them.

We drove from Tennessee to D.C., which took about 10 hours so James was wound tight when we got there. Of course, Jack knew that we were coming so he'd squirreled away several months worth of the Washington Post in his basement. He brought a pile of them up from the basement for James along with a Hefty Bag.

James threw himself into his work while the adults had drinks and I did my homework. Time on the road quickened his pace and I could tell that he viewed the Post as a more classy tear than the Chattanooga News Free Press. It was a pleasure to watch a true professional. James sat on the floor busying himself as the ribbons of paper and then squares grew until they almost covered his legs. Then he sacked into the Hefty and took the bag out to the front curb---like a good boy.

After dinner, he filled another bag. Then it was time for bed.

We stayed in D.C. four days. Each afternoon after sightseeing we returned to Jack's place where James would go down to the basement as if taking a trip to the wine cellar to retrieve a pile of papers. By now the routine had settled and Hefty bags full of paper lined the front of Jack's curb.

On the night before we left to return home, around 230am, I felt my father's hand gently close across my mouth while his other hand held a finger to his lips to clue me I needed to be quiet. "Shh...don't turn on the light. I want you to see this.." he whispered.

We shuffled quietly to the curtained window in the guest room that faced the street. A light blue glow from the street lamps seeped through the curtain. "There..." he said, "take a look."

An Oldsmobile had pulled up to the Hefty bags. The lights were off but the engine was running, a low hum. We could make out a man in the driver's seat looking furtitively, not smoking. Another man quickly loaded the trash bags into the trunk. Quiet, professional, and swift, he grabbed bags two at a time but didn't throw them into the back lest they made a telltale thud. Instead, he slipped them in a kind of sequence, as if cataloging them.

When the last bag was gone, he leaned gently on the trunk lid to shut it quietly then peeled off to round the back of the Olds toward the front passenger door, which hadn't been closed. He slid into the seat and pulled the door shut as the Oldsmobile slinked off.

Another 20 seconds passed a we heard second car slide out of its parking slot, gain a little speed, and then switch on its front lights.

The chase was on.....