Story 4

(Here is the final one this semester as required by my class. Hopefully there will be more that I work on on my own. I had a prompt for this one that limited me in several ways. One, the protagonist had to be blind. Two, I had to subvert a cliche with my character. Three, there could be no dialogue. Four, the protagonist had to be nameless. I hated the prompt, and thus I'm not too fond of the result. But, I need input and also content on this blog. So here it is.)

I took a long drag, and got a hefty mouthful of rich smoke from the stem of my briar pipe. The smooth, oaky tobacco rolled around in my mouth, over my tongue and teeth, before I gently exhaled it. The pipe’s embers popped just slightly as I inhaled again, and this time I opened my mouth so that the thick woodiness could meander lazily out, engulfing my entire head in a mask of scent. A smattering of wispy snowflakes drifted through the air, brushing against my face and melting on the bench beside me. I clenched the pipe in between my teeth and listened.

                There was no one in the park that I could tell, save for a few squirrels chattering at each other in quite a malicious manner a few yards away. The sun’s rays softened the air so that it was not awfully frigid, but still cool enough that the warm pipe smoke was not unwelcome. I often sat there, in the same spot, every day at about midafternoon. I always preferred the midafternoons to sit, and often enjoy a pipe, because it seemed to me to be a time of lessened activity. Biologically of course, our bodies are engineered to slow down around this time of day, so as not to lose a great amount of energy at the warmest time. But there was also a general attitude from the world that I enjoyed. It was a kind of transition time. It was not like the frantic scurrying done in the morning. Loud honks, screeching tires, and the bitter smell of scalding coffee mixed with frosty air. Midafternoons were a time when the world’s energy reserves seemed to have been depleted. The transition from those last few hours of work into the evening was a sleepy time, a time when it seemed to me the world became less focused, but more peripheral.

                It was here that I chose to sit, always by myself, always with my pipe clenched in the side of my mouth, smoke enveloping my head in listless, white screen. I sat behind the screen, watching people.

                Not many of the thousands suddenly jettisoned from their office buildings walked through the park on their way home, but I preferred it that way. I always imagined that the people who chose this particular route did so because something in their spirit could not stand to be cooped up all day without some kind of retribution. Not all were of that mindset, however. Many saw the park as simply an obstacle to traverse with as much speed as possible. Their strides were long and hard, the ground shuddering with the impact of every step. It seemed to my ears that they covered several yards with each violent stomp. I had the strong desire on several occasions to reach out a foot and trip the stompers.

                The meandering, lazy, lope was what I always listened for. It was one of my favorite sounds on those cool midafternoons. The footfalls were steady, on beat with some sort of slow, drum-led march that only the owner of the feet could hear. The feet were in no hurry, they trod on the ground with deliberate ease. When the feet made contact with the ground the sound was often so soft that even I had to strain to hear it. Each stride was a thoughtful, planned, and well executed move. Often I heard the meaningful strides pause for a moment, perhaps to observe an animal, pick up an interesting looking rock from the snow, or simply stop and soak up the park. I related to the meanderers.

                There were several times when I heard a stomper catch up with a meanderer, and every time my mouth split in a wide smile, causing the pipe to bob up and down. The stomper would be moving with all the force of a runaway train, determined only to reach his goal at all costs. Meanwhile in front of him the meanderer would be lethargically plodding along, footsteps steady and on beat, likely taking up the whole sidewalk. I could tell it drove the stompers almost to madness. Sometimes their stride would slow, I could hear the brush as the stomper passed in front, and a muffled, resentful apology would be uttered. The meanderer’s steady beat would not cease or pause, but the stomper would pound the ground with renewed fury into the distance. I could almost picture the haughty head held high.

                I suppose to many of them it was strange to see a blind man sitting in a park bench alone smoking a pipe. I wondered sometimes if they could even tell I was blind. I carried no cane, and had no seeing-eye dog. The only blind stereotype that could be attributed to me was that I wore dark glasses. To many it probably seemed like I was simply a strange man who sat and stared in one direction, puffing on a pipe and occasionally cocking his head to one side in order to better hear what was going on around him.

                It always amused me when people realized that I was blind. I could tell immediately because they would pause in what seemed akin to awe for a moment, and then begin to walk softer. If they were talking loudly before, they were almost sure to begin to almost whisper to each other. I suppose with my head cocked to one side it appeared to them that I was utilizing my superhuman hearing talent that is attributed to all blind people.

                The thought always made me smile.

                The footfalls began to slow, become less frequent, before eventually stopping altogether. As the sun’s rays began to strike my face lower and lower, I stood up. Emptying the pipe’s ashes on the ground and stamping them out with my foot, I thrust the briar piece into my coat and began to walk. I had long memorized the way to my flat. I knew every one of the faults in the concrete sidewalk leading out of the park, where you had to be careful to lift your foot in order to avoid tripping, or where the ground dipped and you were likely to stumble forward hard and send a shock through your knee. There was a squirrel that lived in the trees along my route, and I could hear him squabbling with his neighbors every day above me. The streets I navigated by hearing. I waited on the corners and followed the movement of bodies as they crossed in front of the rumbling engines. My hands were thrust in my pockets as I walked; I never once tore my unseeing gaze from the front.

When I first began to walk without a cane, I worried frequently about crashing into people as they walked the opposite direction. It was easy enough to tell what was moving in the same direction in front and back of me, but I was worried the sudden sound of someone moving in the opposite direction would not give me enough time to react. What happened instead was quite different than I expected. I moved at my deliberate, unseeing pace, and people moved. I received the occasional curse or mumble under the breath commenting about my disposition and paternity, but I was never bumped into.

The acrid smell of cigarettes and mold smashed into me, and I turned left through a creaking door to an ancient apartment building. I navigated the sparse lobby, the cigarette smell even stronger now, and rode the elevator up. I exited and began my trek down the hall. As I walked, I touched each doorframe and counted them. When I reached 39, I stopped, fished for my keys, and unlocked the door.

It is easy, I think, for anyone to tell a room is empty. There is a stillness that invades your very being. Its silence deafens you. It seeps through the room and your body, suppressing the noise you make and amplifying the silence. I stood for a moment and faced the silence. It weighed on me like lead, my ears hearing what my eyes could see. Nothing.

I began to move around the room.

I took off my coat and boots and placed them in the corner by the door. My pipe I hung on the wall above my bed next to its siblings.

                I sat at the lone bit of furniture in the room besides my bed, a single chair and desk. Upon the desk was a keyboard and a display monitor. The monitor buzzed as I switched it on, and I let my fingers rest on the upraised braille ridges of the keyboard.

I wrote. And as I wrote the monitor spoke my words back to me:

                “What most people don’t realize is that the blind have no sort of special abilities. They are no more likely to be able to hear a mouse through the wall when they are blind than when they are able to see. There is no secret to navigating the world without the gift of sight. No person can simply hear better in order to make up for the fact that they are blind. The fact is, everyone can hear, but few choose to really think about what they are hearing. The world is a place full of flashing and glittering things, but things that sound hollow. The city sparkles from one side, while no one pays any attention to the crumbling heard on the other. Hearing tells the depth. It speaks of things that sight cannot reveal.”

I finished and retrieved my pipe from the wall, stepping outside onto my small terrace. The frosty air filled my lungs and the city moved with activity below me. I could not see the lights, but I knew they were there, flashing and glittering in the moonlight. I lit my pipe, let the smoke surround me. And I listened.