Translating the secret language of autism

The Kid loves trucks, so when a friend pulled into the driveway in his pickup, he may as well have been Harry Potter parking in our magnolia tree in his cerulean flying car.

Our friend downplayed his souped- down ride, describing it as “vanilla.”

From The Kid’s expression, I could tell he was picturing the truck covered in chocolate syrup.

Such is life with an autistic 9- year- old. As a writer, I’m impulsively drawn to metaphors, similes and analogies. As someone on the spectrum, that last sentence lost him at “drawn to.”

Being the parent of an autistic child will knock the metaphors out of you like — hold on, “like” is a problem. So is “knock out.” But you get the picture ... I mean idea.

Try to edit out such phrases next time you have a conversation. You might avoid using metaphors as well after a few rounds of explaining that the cat survived its smackdown with curiosity. That a fork isn’t needed to handle that task that’s “a piece of cake.” That the cumulus clouds don’t portend an actual deluge of felines and pooches.

In honor of World Autism Month, I’ve collected a few more examples from The Kid.

Grandma: “I’ll fix your wagon.”

The Kid: “You’re not a handyman.”

Me: “Please don’t leave food on the lawn, its draws flies.”

The Kid: “How can food draw?”

Mom walks in to check on how we’re faring at a video game.

Me: “I’m getting my butt kicked.”

The Kid: “I never touched you.”

Me ( trying to clear up a misunderstanding): “Let’s get this squared away.”

The Kid: “You’re going to put me in a box?!”

Me: “Want to watch a movie? How about ‘ Beetlejuice?’ ”

The Kid: “What’s it taste like?”

Me: “Would you like some chicken fingers?”

The Kid: “That’s disgusting.”

Me: “Which things in this sentence pop out?”

The Kid: “Nothing’s moving.” The result is a dynamic in which we can drive one another crazy ( oops, there’s another one). Any version of telling him to “cut it out” inspires fears of a knife. Sometimes I’m suspicious he’s playing games ( yeah, I see it) and accuse him of trying to “steer” the conversation, which he responds to by miming a drive down Lombard Street in San Francisco.

Eventually, we develop a stealth language. Parents of autistic children secretly recognized the character of Drax the Destroyer in “Guardians of the Galaxy.” After Rocket ( a talking squirrel, which must be a metaphor for something) explains to the rest of the crew that Drax’s people are literal and everything goes over his head, he responds by saying “Nothing goes over my head. My reflexes are too fast. I would catch it.”

Drax exhibits other familiar characteristics. He can’t filter out thoughts that are socially unacceptable ( calling Gomora “a green whore”), fixates on misguided missions and is vulnerable to sarcasm. Nothing thrives in the Marvel Universe more than sarcasm, except perhaps faux deaths.

After nine years, The Kid may not get the joke, but after I deliver a retort with the flatness of James Spader as Ultron, he now reliably pauses, shakes a pointed finger and accurately observes — “you’re being sarcastic.”

In my universe there are a lot of other heroes on the spectrum. Spock may be a Vulcan, but I’m pretty sure he’s an autistic Vulcan. I’m starting to reinterpret Batman too. Maybe he just doesn’t get the Joker’s sense of humor.

Another thing I like about Drax is that he finds his tribe and they accept him for who he is.

Shows such as “The Big Bang Theory” spotlight challenges of communicating with people on the spectrum, but rarely cross the line past the easy gag.

Impulsive outbursts, flapping of hands and inappropriate uses of profanity are rarely depicted in popular culture. But they, too, are forms of expression. Attempts to be seen, to be heard.

It’s a language more people should try to understand.