Let’s see, what can I talk about that has nothing to do with anything of relevance to anything actually going on in my life? Something that has no emotional ties, something that won’t cause tears or insatiable worry… Something that is inconsequential…
Chad? No. Of course not.
Novel writing? No. I think not.
Becoming an uncle in a week or two? Heaven’s no.
Loneliness and hopelessness? Always tempting, sure, but not today, thanks.
Oh, I know!
Blindness! The absence of light. The inability to see all the beauty around you.
That is what we will talk about today kids. Blindness. Turn your primer to page 2,643. What? Oh, that’s right, you’re blind, you can’t see the pages numbers. That’s okay, just count as you turn the pages. I’ll wait. Don’t forget the first few pages of copyright and titles and such aren’t normally numbered, so you’ll need to not count those. Oh, and watch out for paper cuts.
Are you there yet? No?
Good grief just because you’re blind doesn’t mean you’re an idiot.
Well…
Okay, fine. Never mind. Close your books. We will just do story time instead. I hope you’re not deaf as well!
Picture this: It is a beautiful Monday afternoon. You have been writing in your favorite coffee shop all day, which of course means you don’t have a life and no one waiting at home for you. That’s right dear children, there ain’t no glass slippers and Ursula didn’t get harpooned by that ship—she’s alive and well, laughing at Ariel as she cries because Eric left her to sail the seven seas to find himself.
You managed to get your favorite seat in the coffee shop, a fact that nearly brings you to tears since life is throwing you a bone. You’ve nearly finished reading the draft you wrote (well, not you, you’re blind and stupid, but go with me on this).
Around this time, a rather rotund woman, roughly the size a battling rhino and hippopotamus comes into the coffee shop. Like a black hole, all the attention in the rooms is vacuumed to her. Her and her retractable cane thing that she bonks on all the items around her, moving nimbly over to the counter, where she sprawls over the top, her rolls of lard smoothing out like the leaves of a lily pad on the surface of a pond. Her two purses sliding off her shoulder and clattering against the paneling of the case.
You gaze at her, wondering if she can feel your eyes upon her, as she requests the barista to rattle off every item on the menu and all the foodstuff in the case.
After quite an expanse of time, the colossal woman picks a small pastry. Pondering, you wonder who she is trying to fool. She’s blind. You aren’t. Well, some of you are.
Once she pays, a female barista brings her food and drink around and leads her to a seat. She begins to lead the lady to a seat close to the counter. You think you notice the large lady’s eyes glance towards you, towards the empty seat neat to you, the cushioned pew-like bench that runs the expanse of the back wall.
“Is there a seat in the booth? I prefer the booth?” The lady says to the barista before she even turns to see (or feel, whatever) where she is being lead.
“No, I don’t think so.” The barista didn’t seem to be trying to be rude, but you aren’t sure why she said no.
“Are you sure?” The elephant woman asks again, her voice holding just a touch of accusation.
The barista turns and looks towards you. “Oh, yes there is one actually.”
As they turn and begin to walk toward the empty spot, you and the man on the other side of the vacant seat, lean down and remove cords that were providing your computers with electricity, wouldn’t want her to trip and smash you and your coffee. And that’s right, kids. One day we will figure out how to run computers off of gas and coal, but until then….
The woman plops down into the seat, and instantly you begin to feel a touch of claustrophobia. What if she really is akin to a black hole and somehow sucks you into her abundant folds, and you are lost forever?
Keeping at least one hand gripped firmly on your table, you continue to attempt to do your work, every once in awhile glancing over at the woman devouring her pastry, crumbs leaping away from her and scattering themselves all over the table.
Her devouring seems to take an exorbitant amount of time, and by the time she is finished, your brow has a slight sheen of sweat.
Pushing her plate and napkins to the edge of her table (where they will stay, even after she leaves—that’s right, children: blindness makes you unaware of garbage and the receptacles in which it lives), she begins to paw through her purses. They are so massive and deep, and she spends such a great amount of time relishing their contents you being to wonder if she had just eaten Marry Poppins and stole her magic bags and is going to pull out a lamp or possibly two small British children to have for dessert.
At long last, your sideways glances reveal her sought after treasure. She pulls out a large map with small print and opens it up. You glance closer in excitement. You’ve never seen a map in brail before. You peer closer, trying to see the tiny dots. At last you realize you are closer to the massive black hole than is advisable, you also accept the fact that this map is not brail, it is just your normal, everyday species of map. So much for the magical bag theory.
She puts her purses aside, spreads the map out in front of her, and begins to read. Not feel for bumps. Not peer at the small letters with a magnifying glass. Not asking for assistance. Your gapping at her continues to intensify as she continues to read and read and read.
Alright, kids. That’s all for today. Please get your backpacks ready and loaded to go home. Jimmy, please quit touching Ralf there. I’ve already told you once today, don’t make me call your mom.
I want a one-page paper about blindness and the ability to read through the lack of sight.
Tomorrow we will learn about masturbation as well as mayonnaise sandwiches.
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