For 15 years, I have been coming to a pipe and cigar shoppe in Springfield, MO called Just For Him. The place has been around since the mid 80s and is also a gift shop specializing in merchandise men like. Knives, fine hats, bar accessories, poker accessories, shaving accessories, canes, and a variety of other products can be found within its walls. What really makes the place special, however, is the lounge aspect of it. On either side of the shop, there are tables and chairs, ashtrays, and high quality televisions, with amenities like a nice bathroom, soda machine, and a few refrigerators for beer and other items. Every day, men, and a few women, gather here to smoke, commiserate, and watch television. Being a regular there is like being a regular in the Cheers bar. Everybody knows your name, your nickname, and your troubles, insofar as you wish to share them. Social environments have traditionally been temporary for me. College ended, gaming stopped being fun, religion didn't work out, and work became untenable, but Just For Him has endured for 15 years, is still going strong, and there is no end in sight. Here, I'll tell the story on how I became a fixture at the shoppe and how it ultimately became among my most powerful tools for coping with my autism.
I was standing on a small stoop attached to my dorm at what was then Drury College among friends. These friendly commonly would stand on this stoop smoking Swisher Sweet cigars. On this occasion, they ran out and asked me, as the only one with any money, to go buy them some. My instruction were to get five vanilla and five cherry cigars. Unknowledgeable about cigars as I was at the time, I was unaware they meant to go a gas station for them. So I and my best friend consulted the yellow pages for cigar shops and arrived at Just For Him in short order. Upon our arrival, we met a man I would come to know as Uncle Bob. Bob showed us to a high-end cigar line called Cojimar, which did, indeed, include vanilla and cherry flavors. These were purchased for around 50 bucks. When I returned, my friends were perplexed, since they didn't have the plastic tip to which they were accustomed. With a pocketknife, we managed to smoke them. Although my friends were not enamored to these better class of cigars, I was and began hanging out regularly at the shoppe. A year later, a freshman would go to the shoppe with me and introduce me to pipes, which further cemented my relationship with the place and made my visits to it much more frequent.
As my professional and romantic life have fallen utterly apart, most of my friends have moved away, and I've found myself battling depression, Just For Him has proven more vital than ever to helping keep me functional and sane. The easy familiarity I have with other regulars and obvious icebreakers available to me when I meet new customers have allowed me to make and maintain friendships in a way that has proven impossible in any other context. We come from all walks of life there. There's lawyers, doctors, policemen, firefighters, musicians, butchers, business owners, lawnmowers, railworkers, jewelers, phone workers, servicepeople, insurance people, truck drivers, window washers, pilots, horseshoers, mechanics, and just about anything else you can name. Incredibly, there's even another autistic in similar circumstances to myself. For him and myself, the shoppe provides an opportunity to belong and feel like a real functioning member of society, at least for a little while. That feeling of belonging is more valuable than the whole world and whatever is in it. You see, autistics crave that sense of belonging and, throughout their lives, are routinely denied it. With all the time I've put in, the shoppe has become my sanctuary from my troubles, my home away from home, and a place where I can always find a friend when I need one. They say smoking's bad for you, but I consider it a hard fact that smoking is, in fact, the best thing in a life that is largely difficult and lamentable.
-Frank
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