The Blind Man, 2

A few months ago, I posted a fragment of a short story, and pleaded for help in finishing it. At long last, I think I have a plot for it--read along, and tell me what you think.


THE BLIND MAN

Tim wove unsteadily through the crowd that surged across 42nd and broke in clamorous waves on the steps fronting Bryant Park. He pressed the cell phone tighter to his ear, trying to decipher the thin voice on the other end over the ebb and flow of the crowd’s roar. “What? Sorry, I can’t quite hear you.”
Faintly, and for the fifth time that conversation, he heard, “Are you deaf? Honestly, Tim…”
“No, it’s not me, it’s the phone. I can’t figure out the volume control, it’s turned way down.” He briefly held the phone at an arm’s length, inspecting its sleek exterior, and flashing display for some newfound revelation, before plunging back into the conversation, mid-sentence: “—live a thousand miles apart, already never see one another, and the only time you can find to talk is walking down a crowded street?”
“Come on, Em--” he began heatedly, as the spark of irritation he felt suddenly flamed into exasperation. After a moment, he continued, “Listen, babe, we’ll find more time to talk. I’m flying down for your birthday next month, remember? Why don’t you tell me about your week?”
Tim sprang up the steps nimbly, at best catching every other word as she described her Nutrition class, a roommate-dispute, a trip to the mall, dwelling instead on the hint of resentment that coated her words and brushed an oily residue across his mind. He stopped before the ‘Wichcraft kiosk and scanned the menu, mocking his soft sounds of affirmation with some exaggerated eye-rolling.
After a moment, his gaze roved off the hanging board, and down to the service window, where it fell upon, not so much a girl, as—sleek brown hair falling in gentle curls, ripe-strawberry lips, an apron framing the soft curves of breasts and thighs.

Suddenly, the world shifted to stereo—in his ear, and from the window, he heard, “Excuse me?”

“Excuse me?”: Emily’s voice, clipped and irritated. “I asked you a question.”

“Excuse me?”: the clerk, a girl about his age, tossed her hair impatiently, and withered him with a disgusted stare. “Can I get you something?”

As four-letter expressions bloomed and wilted on his lips, Tim gestured for a moment’s time, fixing his eyes somewhere beyond the girl’s right shoulder. “Sorry, I just—Hey, babe, I’m at the park, so I need to go. Ordering the food and all. Call you back in an hour?”

“I don’t know how you plan to talk with a homeless man for an hour, if you can’t hold a conversation with your girlfriend for ten minutes,” she seethed. “Call me whenever.”

Tim hung up without responding, his insides writhing as a knowing look twisted the clerk’s expression into a haughty sneer. Her words dripping disdain, she repeated, “Can I get you something?”

He wanted to respond: “Yeah, some arsenic,” but instead, he ordered two sandwiches, and coffee. “Can I help that I have eyes?” he wondered bitterly, overcome by the injustice of hormones, and the general impossibility of dealing with females.

As he walked away, his change a wadded mass in his pocket, the bag of food steaming in the stiff October breeze, his nerves still raw from the exchange, Tim forced himself to stop. He shut his eyes, and said a grudging prayer: “Father, forgive me for my weakness. Help me to be generous with my money, and my time. Show me someone to show your love.”

He continued along the flagstone-path that encircled the park, still annoyed, but with a sense of injured grandeur, like a wounded and weakened soldier charging forward resolutely. As he picked his way around mothers pushing strollers, and couples huddled intimately over tables, Tim scanned the benches for a homeless man to shower with beneficence. Having nearly completed the orbit of the bare lawn, he was fighting a growing sense of desperation when he spotted a likely candidate.

The man sat alone, perched rigidly on a park bench, the contours of his body all sharp angles, back held straight and unsupported, shoulders square and level, hands clasped contentedly around the cane in his lap, his gaze fixed on the flower bed across the path. Indeed, a careless observer might easily have thought him some new addition to the Park’s statuary, or a mannequin forgotten after Fashion Week, so static was his aspect. His skin was dark, the color of wet asphalt, and took on an ironic purity against the muted stains that covered his white shirt and tan pants. His hair grew wild, curly strands jutting up haphazardly, like hands clawing from a great crowd, and all of it shot through with streaks of gray. In spite of the fall wind that gnawed the Bryant Park-passerby to the bone, he wore no coat, and seemed not to notice the chill.

Tim stopped a few feet before the yogi, a greeting dying on his lips, as he showed no sign of interest or acknowledgement, remaining engrossed in the mysteries of the swaying bulbs. After a moment’s uncertainty, Tim cleared his throat audibly. The man jerked slightly in Tim’s direction, a movement startling in its minuteness, though his eyes never left the flowers. “Can I help you?” he rumbled, his deep voice rolling like gravel in Tim’s ears. Awaiting a response, the man turned his head towards Tim, his expression tense and inquisitive, except for his eyes, which glimmered with a dark brilliance, bright and depthless and quite as useless as two gems.

Understanding crashed on Tim like a safe--“He’s blind!” As the silence stretched on, Tim snatched at random words, desperately seeking solid ground—“Sorry, I—I’m sorry, I thought you might want some lunch. I have food. And coffee. Turkey sandwiches.”

The blind man chuckled softly, “Oh, really? Well, son, that’s mighty kind of you. Now that you mention it, I am hungry as hell. Haven’t eaten for a good spell.” He paused pointedly, as Tim’s mind worked frantically for a response. Finally, the man gestured towards the bench—“Why don’t you take a seat?”

Tim sat woodenly, pressing himself into the far corner of the bench as the man swung his torso completely towards the boy, placing his left elbow on the bench’s back, his broad features splitting in a slow smile that never touched his eyes’ distant reflection. “Well, now, lunch, hmmm? Turkey sandwiches and coffee. What brings these here sandwiches to my bench, son?”
Tim clutched at the question like a life-preserver, suddenly finding himself in familiar territory. He felt some of his former confidence returning as he rattled off something about God, and how Jesus wanted him to give people sandwiches.

That smile widened, revealing shockingly white teeth, and he rumbled, without a trace of irony—“Oh, I see. A Christian. You folks are always good for a sandwich. Well, sure, son, I’ll sit with you for a spell.”
Despite the sincerity of the voice, Tim felt a tiny stab of unease, and sought to steer the conversation towards safer ground.

“I’m Tim Jones,” he said, forcing a high-pitched cheeriness into his tone as he slid the sandwich and coffee across the bench.

“I’m Jenkins. George Jenkins,” he responded brusquely as he tore the cellophane away from the sandwich and took a delicate bite. Swallowing, he continued, “I don’t put much stock in names, though. I’ll probably forget yours before we’re through talking. I’ve been blind long enough to know that names are mostly just shiny bows and wrapping paper. I worry about what’s beneath all the labels.”

Tim tried desperately to think of some intelligent reply to George’s abrupt remark, but his mind could find no traction. He began to feel some measure of panic as seconds stretched towards a full minute and his companion seemed content to munch his sandwich in peaceful silence. Finally, like a falling man catching at any branch he can reach, even the tiny and rotting, he blurted out—“How long have you been blind?”

George stopped in mid-bite, his teeth delicately pinching the sandwich like a tigress sheltering a cub. He softly set it down on the bench, and leaned back, taking a long swig of coffee and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Well, son, I don’t normally tell people this, but seeing as you’re a praying man…” Tim made a vaguely affirmative sound, fighting that vague sense of apprehension as George continued. I’ll tell you about these eyes I’ve got here. Some twenty years ago, I could see everything you see, but these here eyes only wanted to see one thing: flesh. Son, these eyes was darkened lamps, and my deep-soul was filled with darkness, so Gawd struck these here eyes blind so that the darkness would stop a’tricklin’ in through ‘em.” He finished heavily, his voice slowing and fizzling into nothing, and he hunched over a little, as though physically exhausted.

The turkey and bread turned to charcoal in Tim’s mouth; after a moment, he ground out a whispered reply. “You think that God blinded you so you couldn’t lust?”

George hardly seemed to hear Tim’s response; for many seconds, his only reply was to raise his coffee to his lips and slurp loudly, spilling some of the warm liquid down his chin, where it dripped onto his collar.
Suddenly, George turned and narrowed those dark eyes at him with so piercing an expression that Tim doubted his blindness for a moment. “Ain’t God ever taken something from you, son? Ain’t no Christian out there who God ain’t taken something from, that’s damn sure. It was my eyes—could be something else for you.”

Tim sought for a reply, but the memory of those two voices, the doubly accusing, “Excuse me,” the girl’s body, Emily’s hurt tone, crowded out all thought. “I’m a goddamn bastard,” he thought to himself, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, yearning to blot out the incident.

“You alright, boy?” A note of concern entered George’s voice.

The low rumble jerked Tim back to the present. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he managed shakily. “Wow, that’s terrible,” he continued, instinctively reaching for the security of sympathy, though his voice remained strained and thin. “It must be so difficult to be blind and homeless.” He had hardly finished when George guffawed loudly, and launched into a fit of coughing. Tim jerked back in alarm, trying to remember how to do the Heimlich. “Are you ok?”

Still chuckling, George shook his head, bemused. “Yeah, just fine. Homeless? Son, I ain’t homeless. I live with my brother—he brings me here every morning, I play my horn for a few hours, and he picks me up again in the afternoon. We live up in East Harlem. I was jus’ taking a breather when you walked up.”

Tim suddenly noticed the black case sitting beside the bench; its presence shattered his last pretension. “You’re not homeless…” he said slowly, as panic rose within him.

He shook his head slowly, reliving the events of the past half-hour, watching the ignorant collisions of his life. Distantly, he heard himself mutter, “It was great meeting you, George,” as he stood up suddenly, leaving the remnants of his lunch on the bench. He walked quickly away without waiting for a response, his pace increasing with every step, a desperate urge to flee driving him forward. By the time he exited the park, he was nearly running, and he broke into a sprint as he crossed 41st, ignoring the blaring car horn of the truck he darted in front off. He tore around passerby, his vision clouded by the memory of the clerk’s sneer as he skidded around a corner, lengthening his stride—CRASH.

He saw the panhandling woman a second before he slammed into her hunched form; the hand extended to plead for change swept up before her face as a shield, but he hit her full-on, throwing her to the ground, tripping over her slumped form and falling himself, the tinkling sound of clattering quarters ringing in his ears.

Tim lay dazed on the ground for a moment, vision blurred, his limbs jumbled. When he raised his head, his eyes met the tear-swollen gaze of the fallen woman, and, in his muddled state, her hurled accusation came to him in the voice of Emily, of the clerk, of George himself: “Are you blind?!”

Palm Sunday, ca. 33 AD

I came to Jerusalem for Passover. I came wearing my threadbare robe, my feet dusty and bare and raw from the road. I walked the sixty stadia from Herodium, left my work as a stonecutter erecting further glories to the Herods and Caesars. I walked from the shadow of that monstrous hill that my grandfather and his neighbors raised with bucketfuls of dirt mortared with weeping, and as I shuffled along, the pilgrim throngs—the shouting, singing, weeping, laughing, weary masses—stirred themselves to a half-forgotten dance as the memory of freedom, of the great exodus, of the terrible spirit that passed over the crimson lintels rose hazily before them. Yes, and as the memory rose, so did the faint outlines of Jerusalem on its hill, changed through our psalms and our boasts into Zion the glorious, Zion of the glad-hearted; I stumbled mutely, half-mumbling along with the choruses, but in my heart of hearts, I felt the wondrous thrill of possibility—might we at last see the promised Root striking the earth with the rod of his mouth?

The city roiled and churned, an overfull pot; it swelled like a lump of dough, and the leaven that coursed through it was a whisper, a drunken shout, a sullen glare cast at passing legionnaires: Might this Nazarene be Messiah? Might we see him trampling kings underfoot, and making them as dust with his sword?

The news came first in isolated trickles, then in dancing streams, but finally as a riotous torrent of disembodied shouting—“Jesus comes to Jerusalem, triumphant! The King rides upon the Mount of Olives!”

The crowd snaked through the streets, as boys perched clamorously in the city’s palms like so many starlings, tearing and slashing at fronds, and throwing them down to outstretched arms below. Straining, I caught a branch, and waved it high overhead, rejoicing before the Lord as I clutched the flag of our ambition, the sign of the promise that the Lord's wrathful anger would one day fall on the oppressor.

We flooded out the Golden Gate, lining the road that dipped out of the west. I fought through the wild, expectant crowd for a view of the road, clawing and snatching joyously, catching a stray elbow with my right temple, so that for a moment it seemed to me the heavens were shaken, and the stars danced and fell before my eyes.

When my vision cleared, I looked down the right, and saw the party creep into view over a rise. First came his disciples, a shabby honor guard—unarmed, unwashed, unsure of themselves, some cringing before the throngs, some preening nervously. They pressed close to the Master, who sat astride a scrawny donkey that tossed its head and rolled its eyes fearfully, but never faltered in its steady plod. When they drew near enough for me to study the promised King from behind my cries, I noticed first his robe, stained and mended, then his hair ragged and short, and his features, broad, flat, and framed with a scraggly beard. I considered the fierce descriptions I had heard of Theudas and Judas the Galilean, and he seemed a frail thing by comparison.

He met my gaze, and I saw that he was weeping silently. He wept, and suddenly I was naked before him in all my anger, my vain clutching, my despair. His visage was sorrow, but glimmering beneath it like jewels at the bottom of a stream was mirth, and even as he wept for me, he mocked me for my foolishness, scoffed at my grave pretensions to conquer and rule. His expression was sorrow and mirth, but I remembered it in the weeks that followed as patience, as though he bore within him a burden too heavy to express, except in a slow, silent weeping.

He met my gaze, and I felt that he knew me, but this eternal moment was quickly gone; I saw that all around the crowd cast its cloaks and branches into the road, welcoming a triumphant conqueror, shouting their Hosannas!, quoting the psalms. I saw them, and a sudden despair welled within me, so that my legs wobbled, and brought me to my knees. I too laid my frond down, but not as to a general—I laid it down as a drunkard casts away his empty glass, as a bully casts away his stones. They shouted their Hosannas, but I could only mouth, “Forgive me. Forgive me, I knew not what I did.” The weeping prophet passed, and I knew that he was no King I had watched to herald. He passed, and it seemed that his tears welled within my eyes, and I wept for Jerusalem, bloody, boisterous, blindly jubilant Jerusalem, and for that weeping and mirthful prophet, who would do nothing for us but die, and by hands such as mine.