8:20 p.m. - 2007-12-03
Smile2

“So, uh, do you have, like, a dog or something?” Sitting over a plate of Eggs Mexicana, it seemed like the only intelligent question to ask. Not that I’d managed the delivery in anything resembling an intelligent manner.
“Do I look like a chew toy to you?”
“If I said you did, would you believe me?”
“I’m blind; not retarded.”
Watching her navigate her way through the meal, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of admiration for Annette. She seemed to be completely independent. I got the impression that there was nothing she couldn’t handle, a conclusion that she deliberately led people to. She would carry herself as the consummate ably-blinded at times, and then do peculiar things like ask for help crossing the street. She was an enigma, and a stunning one to boot.
Offhandedly, she amended her last comment. “Though the way some people treat me, you’d think I was both.”
“So, I take it you’ve had to deal with your fair share of ignorance. Regarding your condition, I mean.”
“Well, yes. In addition to the occasional stupid question, like ‘So do you have a dog or something?’ there’s also a revulsion to people that are different. The stares are the worst.”
“The stares?”
“You don’t have to be able to see to know when someone’s staring at you. You can feel it, hear it in heavy silences. They think you can’t, which makes it that much worse when you do.”
The conversation was taking an abrupt turn into a serious realm that I didn’t want to venture into, lest I have to regale with my own stories of enduring prejudice. Or rather, not enduring it at all and just killing my tormentors. So I tried to change the subject.
“How’s your omelet?”
She shrugs and tilts her head down to it, as if she were looking at it. She pokes it with a fork and makes a flourish with her other hand.
“It’s still. That’s a plus.”
“Would you like to try some of my breakfast?”
“God, no. It smells awful.”
“I could say the same about your food. I mean, spinach? That’s not breakfast; that’s torture.”
“Says you.”
“Well, yes, I suppose I does says. I mean, I was sitting here when I said it. Why spinach?”
“I’m vegetarian.”
“I hear carrots are good for your vision.”
“I don’t have vision. Unless you can find a Dr. Frankenstein carrot that can raise vision from the dead.”
I took a moment to revel in her mention of the dear doctor, an allusion to my favorite book. It seemed with each moment that passed between us, I found her more endearing.
“So, why are you a vegetarian?”
“I don’t know.” I hate it when people start genuine responses to questions with that. It’s like a knee-jerk reaction to say “I don’t know” and then launch into this well-rehearsed explanation as to how they actually do know and have given the issue much thought. She did this, right in front of me, and I let it slide. Personality goes a long way.
“I just don’t think it’s right to kill something that can think. I mean, then it will know what you’re doing to it, and that’s not right.”
Hmm. Interesting theory.
“I’ve heard that broccoli has an IQ of 5.”
She laughs and a bit of food flies from her mouth. She puts her hand to her mouth as she laughs even more while trying to speak. “I’m sorry. Did that hit you?”
I checked my coat for eggs/spinach shrapnel. “No. I made it through unscathed.”
“Good. Now, what’s this about broccoli?”
I poke around some salsa with my fork. I don’t know why I’d done this; painted myself into this corner where I have to tell stupid hearsay stories just to keep the conversation going. It was just so happy to be talking to someone who wasn’t too freaked out by my appearance to actually listen to me that I was willing to channel anything that bounced through my mind directly to her. She was a cracker to my starving castaway.
“I saw it on a kids’ show a while back. One of those Saturday morning ‘let’s make science fun’ deals. They said that scientists had somehow determined that broccoli has an IQ of five, then they did a short animation sketch where a stalk of broccoli was on a Jeopardy-style game show and it would always hit the buzzer, but when asked to answer, it could only say ‘Broccoli’ in a cute little cartoon voice.” She was laughing across the table from me, and it was just so nice to see someone laughing and know that it’s not at me, but rather with me. Something in my head shifted, and I became a different person. I became one of them, for once. I was sitting across from a beautiful woman who wasn’t horrified of me and I was making her laugh. “Broccoli”, I said, as jovially and as childishly as I could muster. She laughed again, that hand going up to her mouth instinctively, lest she spit more food onto the tablecloth. I started laughing, too, peppering the chuckles with the occasional exclamation of “Broccoli” which would start it all back up again.
Our laughter trailed off and we started to catch our breath, replete with the cliché “hoo” at the end as we fluttered our hands to our chests in mock exhaustion. If this were a cliché movie moment, this is where we would share a silent, meaningful look across the table and then one of us would say something suggestive, like “Let’s take dessert at my place” or some bullshit like that. What she said next caught me completely off-guard.
“What the fuck are you all staring at?” She began to whip her head around in all directions, and when I looked to see the reactions of the people around us, I saw that they were staring. Not surprisingly, since the redhead at table twelve just started cursing at them, but I can see in their faces that they had been staring. I hadn’t even noticed it. When I asked her later how she knew, she said she could measure the silence that hung in the pause of our conversation. When we came in, the café was at half capacity and there were half a dozen spirited conversations permeating the air. But as our laughter trailed off, all she could hear was the telltale silence of a disgusted masses.
“Never seen a blind lady eat before? Sorry I’m not wearing a moo-moo or feeding cats beneath the table right now, but that show’s at seven. Come back then and you’ll get your eyefuls.”
I reached a hand across the table and set it atop hers. “Annette, they’re not staring at you.”
“Like Hell they’re not,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
I swallowed hard. I really didn’t want this fantasy to end so soon. I wanted to keep my mask on a much longer time, but I had to play my card before things got out of hand.
“They’re staring at me.”
“You?” Her voice quieted again, the words meant just for me. “Why?” I removed my hand from atop hers, and I saw hers open and close on the air above it. “Trevor, why?”
“I’m…” I picked up a forkful of food and shoved it into my mouth to buy me some time, a few crumbs falling from my mouth where my lips don’t and never will meet. When I said I’d never smoked, it wasn’t for lack of trying. “I’m…” I said again, so that she could hear that my mouth was full. I chewed and thought and chewed and thought. Finally I swallowed and decided to just lay it all out there.
“I’m… different.”
“Different how? What, are you black? I know the people here can be assholes sometimes but I don’t think they’re racists.”
“No. On the contrary, I’m actually a very pale white guy.”
“Are you ugly or something? You can tell me ‘no’ and I’ll take your word for it.”
I looked around the restaurant and saw that the people were still staring. Goddamn, it was like a game to them. The Freak and Blind Show, what a riot! Some of them looked a bit disconcerted, as if they felt guilty having not paid a ticket to behold such wondrous sights.
“Perhaps we should go,” I suggested.

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