by Amy Casseaux
I parked my car at the ParkAndRide, locked it up securely and gave myself one last look in the mirrored back window. Everything was good. As I walked to the bus plaza, I could see that the afternoon’s early commuters were getting off of buses and heading to their cars. That was fine. I was headed inbound.
This particular ParkAndRide lot is also a transit center, meaning that lots of people switch buses here. No one is going to automatically assume that I drove here. The plaza is arranged so that buses stop at various stations to offload and onload passengers. There is a bench right next to the station that will take me downtown and I sit down on it. No one is paying the slightest attention to me. Almost everyone else is walking to their cars, I’m the only one going downtown. There are two other people standing around, and I patiently sit and wait until they get on their bus - an outbound one. That’s good because it lets me catch the next inbound one. Once I’m alone, I take out my dark wraparound Ray-Bans and the cane. I truly have to rely on the cane because I can’t see through the glasses. They’re painted on the inside.
I hear a bus coming in from the street, so I stand up. The bus stops at my station and I sense people getting off. When there is no further motion near me I approach the doorway.
It’s showtime.
“Number eighty-two?’, I ask.
“Yep. Watch the step.” A woman’s voice, mild hispanic accent.
I use my cane to find the step and climb in. A second step and I pull out my bus pass. The driver takes it, scans it, and returns it to my hand, “Left side front is open.”
“Thanks. Can you tell me when we get to Fannin and Dallas?”
“No problema.”
I sit down. A touch of my watch tells me that, “The time is... four... forty...nine.”
I’ve taken this bus before. It takes fifty-five minutes to an hour to get to Fannin and Dallas. I’m headed downtown for a blindsimming foray.
I make one or two of these trips a month, depending on my cash flow. The bus flowed and ebbed and stopped as it made its way downtown. Passengers got off and on. Quite often, I could feel their eyes on me. The young kid across from me is blatantly staring, his mother keeps tapping him and shaking her head. How do I know? I don’t really, but I can almost sense it. It’s what makes the day special.
“Fannin and Dallas.”, I hear, so I rise and exit the bus. Using my cell phone, I call a cab, explaining to the dispatcher that I’m blind. I’m placed on hold and then I am informed that a cab will be there in three minutes. Standing at the bus stop, I feel the pulse of people walking around me. Sometimes, when I have a blind day, I go to the Medical Center and stop in at the blood bank to donate. I did that last time, so tonight it’s just fun.
A honk and a “Taxi, ma’am?”
I nod and step forward until I feel the car, then I find the door and get in. ”Hyatt Regency, please.”
The cab pulls away and travels from the heart of downtown to the edge of it. There’s a ramp where traffic goes from the street to the loading and unloading area by the main entrance. I feel the bump as the cab turns and climbs.
“Three sixty.”, I’m told. I take a five and a one out of my purse and give the five to the driver as I hear my door being opened. As I get out a hand gently helps me, leads me a step away and closes the door behind me. “Ms. Belle, It’s nice to see you again.”
Amy Belle is not my name, but it’s the pseudonym I use. Thanks to a friend at Kinko’s, I even have what looks like a company ID card complete with a photo to support that identity. Under that corporate guise, I often “meet clients” here and at other downtown bars.
“Hi, Troy. Has anyone asked for me?”
“Yes, the front desk asked me to tell you that your client’s flight was delayed and that he will meet you at the bar as soon as he gets in.”
Good. That call I made, posing as the secretary of my nonexistent client, got passed along. It helps establish my bona fides and keeps the staff from wondering why I come here, but don’t get a room.
“Thanks, Troy. How’s Mary coming along?”
“She’s due next week. Thanks for asking.”
Troy gets another employee to cover the entrance and I take his arm. He leads me through the lobby to the elevators and takes me up to Skybar, chatting as we go. Once I’m seated at the bar, I pass him a dollar bill and thank him, then fold my cane and set it on the bar in front of me.
“May I get you a drink?”. A new voice, but coming from across the bar, not beside me. Not Vance, the regular bartender. Good.
“One of your house wines, please - a Merlot... and start a tab, if you would.”
“Merlot. Very good.”
On these little forays, I usually buy a drink. Rarely do I have to buy a second. Sometimes, I wind up not paying for the first.
A bottle of red, a bottle of white...
it all depends on your appetite.
I’ll meet you any time you want
at our Italian restaurant.
The guy on the piano is doing some passable Billy Joel.
A bottle of white, a bottle of red...
or maybe a glass of rosé instead...
“Pardon, is this seat taken?”, I hear. A young voice - late twenties, early thirties. I’m being looked over, I can tell.
“Not if you don’t mind keeping me company. My friend is supposed to meet me here, but she said she might have to work late.”
I’m not worried about seeing Troy again. If I see him and I’m with a man, he’ll just think I’m with my client. Changing the story doesn’t endanger me at this point. I wanted this guy to think that a woman is joining us, not another man.
“I’d be happy to keep you company. Bob Perkins.”
I extended my hand and found his. A quick, gentle squeeze. Some guys simply do not know how to shake hands with a woman. They give the “guy” handshake that is supposed to convey power and strength. This guy knew how to be gentle.
“Amy Belle.“
“I see. You might want to put your ID inside your handbag instead of clipping it to the strap. Safer that way.”
“Good idea.” I say, as I do as suggested. I had placed that ID card there on purpose, so it could be seen. I’d carefully posed for that photo. With a slight squint and my head cocked left about three degrees, my eyelids were barely open and my eyes had been rolled back, showing only the whites. I’d worn a laughing smile, as if I’d just been told a joke. No one who saw that photo had any doubt that I was blind. Like leaving the cane folded, but in plain sight, it was a way of establishing my cover.
Bob and I chatted for a while. He bought the second round of drinks, as I’d hoped. It was an indicator, a declaration of intent. At one point, while laughing at one of his stories about a fishing trip, I managed to touch his left hand. Wedding ring. Good. Nice and easy one night stand, no emotional attachments.
At seven thirty, my cell phone began piping musical notes. It was the alarm I’d set, thus allowing me to fake a phone call. Silencing the ring, I pretended to take the call.
Aw, too bad. My friend Sherry had had a hard, rotten day and was too tired and frazzled to meet me. Would I mind? Of course not. I’ll call you tomorrow, I said, so that Bob would know I was now unattached for the rest of the evening.
As the native of this city, I was expected to know a good place to eat, and I obliged him by describing Daniel Wong’s where excellent chinese cuisine could be had. After settling our bar tab, Bob stands, as do I, unfolding my cane as I do so. He tries to take my hand, but I pull away.
“Let me take your elbow. That way I can feel you as you turn and step up or down.”, I instruct him. He very gentlemanly apologizes and then leads me away. I like being led. It’s erotic to me.
A twelve minute cab ride later, and we’re being seated at Daniel Wong’s. I come here very infrequently, and I’ve got my hair up in a french twist, a style that really does not suit me because I like to have my hair loose and free flowing or to have the hair on top and on the side pulled back to a pony tail, leaving my hair both up and down.
Also, I’m wearing my Donna Karan dress, with rarely worn hose and heels instead of my customary top, denim skirt and clogs. With that and my dark glasses, I have no fear of being recognized.
I describe the Road Kill Pork and the Hermann Park Duck, my favorite appetizer and entree. By way of making conversation, I tell Bob that Mr. Wong has a sense of humor where his dish names are concerned, but the quality is unbeatable. Neither of those names are truly descriptive of where Mr. Wong gets his meat. There are no free range pigs in this city and the ducks at Hermann Park are quite safe - from Mr. Wong, at least.
“This is his fourth restaurant. He opens them, runs them for ten or twelve years, retires for a year or two, then opens a new one. Usually he puts whoever bought his last restaurant out of business because his regular customers follow him.”
I should point out that I was breaking two of my rules on blindsimming forays. Never going anywhere that I normally go (thus running the risk of being recognized), and eating messy food while wearing one of my good dresses. I’m taking the chance on the latter because I always use chopsticks, thereby cutting each bite to a very small amount that I can easily control.
Bob places a hand on my leg and I reciprocate, touching more than just his leg. Dinner comes and Bob asks me to teach him how to use chopsticks. Holding his hand, I comply.
After dinner, we go to a comedy club to see Carolyn Picard and some other woman comics who tour together. I’ve caught Carolyn’s act before, but she has some totally new material this trip. After we’ve laughed our asses off, we go back to the Hyatt. It’s after eleven, Troy has gone home. Bob leads me to his room.
“There is something I need you to do for me.”, I explain. “Describe the layout, then let me map the room.”
Bob complies, describing the layout of the room: Closet right; dresser ahead, chair beyond that, wall beyond that, table to the right of the chair, a second chair, turn right, a bedside table, the bed. After the bed, comes the bathroom. I thanked him, then began mapping the room by touch, which is a massive turn on for me, and - I suspect - for the guys I meet.
As I make my way back to the bed, he’s there, and he guides me down on the bed with him. My cane gets folded and put away. It isn’t long before I undress him. He’s just about ready. I let him undress me. He does it slowly, teasing me with it. Once I am as naked as the day I came into the world, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, picking up my purse as I go.
With the door closed, I pull off my glasses and apply my coup de grace - a recently acquired pair of theatrical contact lenses that cover both the pupil and sclera. It leaves my eyes completely white. I put the lens holder away and take out my diaphragm. I’m ready. The glasses go back on.
When I emerge from the bathroom, I take two steps and climb back onto the bed. I kiss him all over, waiting for the inevitable.
Yes, it’s happening. He places his hand on my Ray-Bans, and I raise a hand part way as if to stop him, then nod that it’s okay, allowing a fearful look to cross my face. The Ray-Bans are taken away and a hand on my chin gently raises my face to meet his. I open my eyes and hear his gasp. I close my eyes and quiver my chin, pretending to be sad. He shushes my sob, and assures me that it’s all right.
Since I’m not completely sure how much scrutiny the lenses will withstand, I say, “Turn out the light.”
He rolls away, I hear a click and he rolls back. “Okay.”
After we made love, we lay there. Blind sex is the best.
“How did it happen?”, he asks.
Time for the story. I say, “Cancer. It’s called retinal blastoma. They had to take my eyes out. These are plastic.”
“Why didn’t you get artificial eyes. Regular looking eyes, I mean?”
“Same reason some amputees go with the hook instead of getting one of the cosmetic hands. They never fool anyone. I don’t have eyes. Why pretend that I do?
“Then why the dark glasses?”
“Because I hate that little gasp people make when they see my eyes. Because I hate making little children cry.”
“Okay. I get it.”
We hold each other, talking. I hear how he lost his wife to cancer (Ooops!) and can’t seem to get past it. He explains that when he has sex, he feels like he’s cheating on his dead wife. He goes on to say that they never had kids and he doesn’t know what to do with his time.
When I’m awakened the next morning, He helps me find my clothes. He has a meeting to go to. Can he meet me this evening?
A second chance to blindsim? Sure, I tell him. We make plans to meet at a restaurant. A half hour later, he puts me in a cab. My lenses are still in, so I’m still really blind. Unsure where to go, I instruct the driver to take me to a nearby IHOP. Once there, I get a table, asking the waitress to lead me to the bathroom first.
I have the bathroom to myself. Out come the lenses. I blink back to normal vision, having passed the limit of comfortable wear. The opaque Ray-Bans go back on and I go back out to eat my breakfast. I knew this place. A freeway ran alongside the IHOP, and there was a bus stop there. Getting home would be no problem. It was the start of a beautiful day. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t see it. That just made it better.
By Amy Casseaux