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The Blind
“Miguel, look at that young man that just got on the bus. Over
there in the
corner,” Mrs. Potter said, nudging the young black man beside her. “You’re
not
going to believe what just happened between him and me, just now, back there
at the bus stop.”
“Hard telling,” Miguel said without looking at her. The old woman was
always telling him stories, most of them of her own extraordinary personal
experiences. When he was feeling good, it wasn’t so bad listening to her.
But
when he was in a mood to think about his own concerns, her voice going on and
on beside him made the ride home seem twice as long. Mrs. Potter had only
been riding this bus, the 5:15, for about a month now, but already he felt like
he’d known her all his life. She was that kind. You might even call
her a
stereotype. All the way from the blue hair and fussy hairnet on her head
to the
rings of fat around her ankles. Pearls around her neck and a couple of
diamonds
on her plump winter-white little hands. A mother’s ring with four colored
stones, a smell of musty sweet perfume. She kept her lavender-colored wool
coat buttoned up high, rather prissily, and her hands neatly folded on her lap.
Like a lady.
“That young man over there just attempted to steal my purse,” she
said
now. “Quiet now – don’t say anything! It’s all right. I took
care of it. Tell me,
Miguel, do you know him? That one – the one with the fringe on his coat – the
black leather. You don’t know him? Well then, let me tell you,
perhaps you
ought to make friends with him.” She nodded, frowning. “Whenever a
young
man tries to steal an old lady’s purse, it seems to me, he’s almost certainly in
need of something more than money. A friend is what he needs – why, if he
had
friends, I’ll wager he wouldn’t need to steal.”
“No shit? He tried to lift your purse? How’d you get
away?” Miguel didn’t
really believe the old lady. But by this time he was inured to her amazing
stories.
She had a million of em. In her lifetime Mrs. Potter had seen and done all kinds
of incredible things. She had been hit by a train (and miraculously recovered),
she had climbed mountains and explored a jungle somewhere – Miguel forgot
where; during her later years she had helped a nephew of hers in the
building
of certain roads and bridges in Ohio, and at the age of 60 she had drawn a
design
that was later incorporated into a Led Zeppelin album cover. But all of
this was
blurred and jumbled in Miguel’s mind, possibly inaccurate. Unimportant.
Mrs. Potter continued with her story: “I told him – ‘Yes, you may
have my
purse, young man, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to take it home first and
clean
it out. There are things of sentimental value in that purse and what’s
more, at
least fifty years’ worth of memories. You may have the money now, but you’ll
have to come back for the purse later.’ Good heavens, you shoulda seen Mr.
Fringe stiffen up! Oh, yes he was nervous. I think it was the part
about the
memories that bothered him. He seemed confused, like he didn’t quite know
what to think. I told him, ‘It’s not the money that I mind. That’s
replaceable.
It’s those fifty years, and my poor memory. My pictures are the only proof I
have
that it all really happened. Sometimes I feel not so sure and so I keep my
pictures close by so I can look at them again. Most everyone I knew then is dead
now.’ And then we sat down – we were the only ones there at the bench on
the
corner at the time – and I showed him pictures of myself when I was twenty-two
years old. He couldn’t believe it. Would you like to see them,
Miguel?”
Miguel shrugged. He was wishing he could smoke a cigarette.
He recog-
nized the young man in black leather fringe as a dude who hung out at Jim’s
Billards on Fifteenth and Cook. Drove a `74 Mustang and sold dime bags on
the
corner. What was his trip? Wasn’t the business paying off these
days? Miguel
had no respect for dealers, although he was well acquainted with quite a few.
It
was just this money-grubbing attitude, this thieving off of old women, that
bothered him the most. It wasn’t the drugs themselves. It was the attitude
they
created, the blindness of the search.
Mrs. Potter was shoving pictures under his bowed head. He looked at
them
each in turn without comment. A close-up of a girl in a white dress, her
dark hair
in the stiff, puffy curls of the nineteen-forties. Her smiling lips full and
dark, rich
- musta been some red lipstick – and a mischievous look in her eyes. She
looked
like she was about to tag you – You’re It! – and take off running.
“That’s me, Miguel. Can you believe it? See how yellow
the paper is
around the edges. I think it was this picture that changed the young man’s
mind.
After he saw that look on my face he knew he couldn’t possibly take anything
more from me. Look – just look at what I have already lost! What else do I
have?
Or do you think it was this picture, Miguel, of myself and my parents, when I
was a little girl? See how serious I was then. That was before I
learned to laugh.
Things were so important then; now I know how quickly it all goes, like a
carnival ride. Now I just hang on and try not to scream so as not to panic
anyone
else. It’s not so bad – most the time, anyhow.” She smiled, sadly as
if at some
half-forgotten joke, no longer funny, and Miguel quit looking at the pictures.
“Did you give him any money?” he said after a minute or two.
“Of course I did. I gave him all the money I had in my billfold
– almost
twenty dollars. I told him I needed fifty cents for the ride home, and he
said that
would be fine. The way I look at it, Miguel, it’s better me giving it to
him than
him taking it from me. You see what I’m saying? I’m sure he needs it more
than
I do, and he might even learn from the experience. Besides, I don’t want to be
responsible for him going without anything. I told him I’d be here on this bus
if he ever needed me again. Oh, I know, I know, you don’t have to say it, it’s
crazy, but I think my method may just work.” She smiled, looking out the
window upon the passing streets, and chuckled, softly to herself: a warm,
satisfied sound. Looking at her now, Miguel suddenly saw the resemblance
between herself and the girl in the picture. Even with her blue hair and her
wrinkles there was about her something playful, something that stuck out as
recklessly and joyfully, as blindly absorbed, as a kitten with a mouse.
And
suddenly, unaccountably, he hated her with an envy that hurt his gut.
He decided then and there that he would start taking a later bus.
Her
fantastic stories weren’t good for him, they warped his own sense of reality.
And
they were probably all lies anyway. In her radiant good-bye at the corner where
she got out, in the foolish tremulous wave of her hand, he could see now the
dumb, blind cunning of her class, the years of certainty and the dreamy lack of
consequence.
by Melanie Willis – Department of
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