Ok, at the request of a friend, here is the non-fiction short story I wrote last fall. It is based on an experience my husband had as a teenager. I actually want to write a book of short stories based on his life because, well, after reading the story, maybe you'll understand. So here it is!
Blind
The bus crawls over the pavement at a pace I am unsatisfied with. We have thousands of kilometres to go and I am already bored. My unread comic books are burning a hole in my bag as I glumly stare forward at nothing. It is hard to stare at nothing, much harder than one would expect. At first it takes effort and I wonder if they will catch on. After the first few hours I stop caring. I want my comic books. I want a normal family. I am fourteen and I am not blind.
The bus makes many stops between Quebec and British Columbia and I am always the first person off. It is company policy, you see, to let the disabled passengers disembark before the regular folk. I try to hide my embarrassment as my mom guides me down the aisle. They all stare and I know they feel sorry for me. How terrible that that young man is at such a disadvantage. Has he ever seen a sunset or a naked woman or his own reflection in a mirror? What would be worse, having seen these things and then losing your sight to never see them again, or never having seen anything in the first place? I want to scream, “I’ll tell you what is worse, having parents that are too damn cheap to buy a bus ticket.” In my resentment, I trip a little as I step from the last stair onto the pavement. My mom winks at me. She thinks I’m putting on a show for the benefit of our audience. I contemplate giving them a show they will never forget. Of course, that would be the end of our free ride. I regain my footing and stalk off at an appropriate pace.
My brother meets up with me in the bathroom. He thinks that I am not convincing enough as a blind person. “Give me the cane,” he says as he tries to tug it out of my hands. “I could do a much better job than you.” I know that he is my twin but I wonder if I somehow ended up with all of the brains, leaving him empty space where his should be. “Yes,” I say sarcastically, as I struggle to keep hold of the cursed stick of dishonesty, “it makes perfect sense for us to leave the bathroom in reversed roles, with you suddenly struck blind and me miraculously healed and able to see again.” It is not as if we are identical twins. I don’t know how I am even related to such an idiot. Maybe I kicked him too many times while we were in the womb. He grudgingly agrees that maybe a switcheroo isn’t the best idea. I refrain from hitting him over the head with my cane. It shouldn’t hurt that much, being as empty as a whistle and therefore devoid of any nerve endings. Instead, I do my business and then put my game face back on as I step out of the bathroom. My mom is waiting for me. I try not to glare at her. We continue our charade.
We are halfway there. The stuffy air in the overcrowded tin can is repugnant and I am thankful that I am not really blind. If my sense of smell was any sharper, I would probably lose my lunch in the aisle. For some reason, the other passengers seem to think that I am deaf as well as blind. “Poor thing,” they mutter to each other, “he is so young.” They stare at me unabashedly and when they address me, they yell in my face, their eyes wide as if they are making up for what they think I cannot see.
My mom has made a friend and they chatter like two hens about whatever middle-aged women talk about; I don’t pay attention as I really don’t care. My brother has the luxury of being able to watch the movies offered as entertainment by the bus driver. It is tempting to try and watch along with him, but I have already noticed people studying me out of curiosity, and I don’t want to be found out as a fake. Instead I look straight ahead and lose myself in my thoughts. I am surprised as the hours fly by. We have just passed Calgary and as I see the Rocky Mountains looming ahead in the distance, I think of new beginnings and maybe a chance for a more normal life. If this bus ride is any indication, I have little chance of that, but I still hope for what the regular kids have: a stable home, a warm meal each night, a friend or two to shoot the shit with. I’ve had it with the monthly visits to the Salvation Army and my parents making us move every time the rent comes due. I hope that maybe this time my brother and I will have our own beds instead of a mattress that my dad decides to cut in half. I absentmindedly rub my hand down my thigh, over the foot-long scar where the sharp end of a spring gouged through my flesh, down to the white of the femur. My dad failed to notice the sharp edges of the exposed metal springs, but then, he is the one who is actually blind. I am too self-conscious of my pasty white legs to wear shorts, but if I did, I would be tempted to tell anyone who noticed the scar that it was the result of a shark attack. That would be more exciting than the mattress story.
My mom’s new friend engages me in conversation. She asks about what it is like to be blind and how I came to be that way and I give her the scripted response. I am feeling a little more generous because we are now only a few hours away from Chilliwack. I add a few embellishments to make the story seem a heartfelt triumph of the human spirit over adversity. Later I will find out that my mom filled her in on our little scam on day two of the trip and that she was yanking me along for some kicks as she and my mom snickered behind my back.
We finally pull into the bus depot in Chilliwack. This time I don’t mind being the first off of the bus. As always, I shuffle my feet down the bus steps and reach my hand out to my mom so she can guide me onto the platform. She is tired after the four-day long trip and swears at me in annoyance as she bats my hand away. She seems to have forgotten that she is to be playing guide to her poor blind son. The passengers seated at the windows of the bus have not forgotten. They gasp at such a heartless gesture in dismay, the pity in their eyes painting my body like little red laser pointers as I try to shrink inside of myself to avoid the embarrassment of being related to such a bitch. I follow my mom and my brother to get our bags. There really isn’t any point in trying to continue with the act now. I grab my backpack and think about which comic I am going to read first. Probably Spiderman.
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