Randy Dutton would like you to know when his birthday is

This article first appeared in The Berkshire Eagle. 

By Felix Carroll

GREAT BARRINGTON — Randy Dutton, man about town, maybe you know him. If you’ve crossed paths, he’s undoubtedly said hello to you. If you didn’t say hello back, no hard feelings because right up the road there are people who will. Rick at Carr Hardware. Natalie at Lee Bank. Cherri at Extra Special Teas.

Randy, 45, just another soul among us claiming a life of his own in these fair hills, is celebrating the wondrous day of Friday, which comes after the wondrous day of Thursday, which he also celebrates. ...

Tomorrow will be Saturday, the weekend, which is “party time” for a self-proclaimed “party animal.” And when Monday rolls back around, that’ll be pretty great, too, for many reasons — not least of which is that it brings Randy yet one day closer to his birthday, which is July 27, by the way. 

He’d like it if the town would shoot off fireworks in celebration.

Again, July 27 is Randy Dutton’s birthday. There will be cake.

But let’s live in the moment, as Randy does. He awakes still propped against his “head-up” pillow, which helps him to breathe more easily. The sun rummages through the window of his second-floor apartment on Bridge Street, into a bedroom filled with medals. Randy is quite an athlete, despite what his friend Rick says. 

 

“Randy cheats,” jokes Rick.

“No, I don’t,” Randy protests, smiling.

“Rick is a piece of work,” he says, shaking his head.

Also hanging on his wall is his certificate of completion from Wahconah Regional High School, class of 1994, and the 2017 Worker Achievement Award presented to him last fall at a banquet hosted by Berkshire County Arc. Randy commandeered the microphone and gave a speech. 

“I have a hall of fame career,” he declared.

What else? The replica WWF champion belt that Rudy, the butcher, gave him. And the photo albums: There’s a picture of Jody, his best friend, who also earned lots of medals. Jody was staying at Randy’s apartment for a sleepover back in April 2015 when he didn’t wake up the next morning. Cars arrived. There was a lot of confusion. That’s Jody right there, smiling with his dear friend Randy. Jody, presently, is in heaven.

And there are photos of Randy with his roommate, Todd. The two are now celebrating their 13^thanniversary as roommates. They will take a trip later this year to Todd’s hometown of San Diego where they will spend a good portion of their time and money eating burritos. 

For the record, Todd is also a piece of work. For a 13^th-anniversary-as-roommates present, Todd bought Randy an electric egg boiler. Randy loves eggs. He loves to make egg sandwiches slathered with ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise, despite the counsel from the culinary critics in his life who advise him of how disgusting that is.

Forty-three years ago Randy was out in his parent’s meadow in Becket when his mother saw him crawling dangerously close to the family’s Shetland pony.

“Randy!” she called out to him from the house.

He didn’t respond, so she went out, pulled him to safety and stood him up. 

He smiled. She packed him up and took him to the doctor.

“I think he might be deaf,” she said.

After some tests, the doctor informed her and Randy’s father, Ted, that Randy’s hearing was OK. The issue, he said, is Randy, the third of their four children, has Down syndrome.

Pam recalls that at the time she didn’t exactly know what that meant. An uncle tried to clarify. Randy was a “mongoloid,” he said, using the now obsolete term. Randy should be put into a home, he said, suggesting a common course of action at that time.

“He is in a home,” Pam protested. “His home.” 

“Why would we take a happy child and put him away?” she recalls thinking. “The Lord doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle. 

“Plus,” she hastens to add, “he was so cute.”

In that speech he gave at the banquet last year, Randy thanked his mom before raising his arms up and shouting “Whoooot!”

What day is it? Oh, yes, Friday. Randy makes his breakfast, packs his lunch, washes up and puts on his Guido’s Fresh Marketplace shirt, just like he does on Wednesdays and Mondays. 

Tuesdays are different. Tuesdays are Mom Day, when he takes the bus up to Lee. He and his mom have lunch together and then they catch a $6 movie at the mall — nothing violent. Randy hates when people fight. He’d prefer everyone to know each other on a first-name basis and then get down to the essential matters of life, which include friendship, bowling, dancing and his forthcoming birthday.

And Thursdays are Laundry Day, when he wheels his duffle bag up Bridge Street to the laundromat, just like Todd taught him. He puts in just the right amount of soap and just the right amount of quarters, just like Todd taught him. Then he takes a walk and visits everyone he knows downtown.

Fourteen years ago, Randy’s mom, recognizing she wasn’t getting any younger, decided it’d be best for Randy to live on his own. With the help of all those kind people at Berkshire County Arc, he had already proven he could hold down a job. And he had long ago proven he could handle himself in the world. In elementary school in Dalton, he would get teased — but to no affect.

“He was happy,” his mom says. “How can you keep teasing someone who’s happy?”

They met Todd, a certified nursing assistant, through the organization Pathlight, which matches people who have developmental disabilities with people willing to share living quarters and help integrate them into community life.

Today being Friday, the foremost thing on Randy’s mind as he prepares for work is a round-shaped baked good the size of a tea saucer and filled with M&Ms. When you’re Randy, your culinary joyrides come in pre-ordained portions. Friday is Cookie Day.

Richard, the bus driver for Berkshire Regional Transit Authority, knows that.

“Today is Cookie Day,” he says as Randy settles into his seat.

“Yes, it is!” Randy says.

Randy arrives for work at Guido’s at 9:30 a.m. to a sea of hellos, hugs and high-fives. In a gastro-intestinal equivalent of genuflection, he parks himself briefly in front of the display of fresh-baked cookies.

“That’s the one,” he says, pointing, before he moves along to the front of the store where he’s been bagging groceries for 15 years.

“Thank you,” his boss, Luke, says to Randy after they take care of a customer.

“No, thank you,” says Randy.

“No, you did it,” says Luke.

“No, you did,” says Randy.

Randy sets the tone in Guido’s, says Luke. “When Randy’s here, it brightens everyone’s spirits.”

At 1 p.m., Randy’s watch sounds an alarm, prompting him to punch out and rendezvous with his cookie, which he’ll save for lunch tomorrow because tomorrow will be the weekend and the weekends are party time. He hugs every human he can find, all of whom wish him a happy weekend. 

With his warm coat on, and a cane that helps him with his hip dysplasia, Randy is back on the street and back on the bus that takes him to his downtown stop. On the sidewalk, he pulls out his flip phone and presses T, which connects him Todd. He tells his roommate he’s fine and that he’s heading to have a tea at the teashop, where, it turns out, the news couldn’t get any better. Cherri tells Randy she’s planning a party for her shop’s second-year anniversary on April 7. Randy, of course, is invited.

“Can I bring my mom?”

“Yes, you can,” Cherri says.

Randy pulls out a pocket calendar and carefully circles the number 7 in the month of April. He writes the letters RANDY MOM in the box below the number 7.

“My mom will come,” he says. “It’s going to be a good time.”

After a tea and some hugs, he steps back out onto the sidewalk and declares that he likes snow and winter and that he also likes spring, summer and fall, too.

With the town’s tender side before him, Randy makes his way home to tell Todd about a party whose invitees include one Randy Dutton, just another soul among us claiming a life of his own in these fair hills.