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?!”