“What does a blind man want with a shotgun?” the clerk asks. “How is it any of your damn business?” I say tapping my white cane against the cold, glass display. Lemon-lime nacho chipped bad breath, oiled metal, and day old socks waft in the air.
The crinkling of a tin can adds a dissonant overtone to the man’s gurgling belch. “What you gonna shoot?”
“You going to sell me the thing or what?” I imagine a squishy face with French-fry pores lubricating double chins.
“Of course. No law against a blind man buying a gun. But you gotta wait the 10-day cooling-off period first.”
“Ten days? For what?”
“To keep lunatics from shooting anything they damn well please!”
“Well, that’s absurd!”
“All the same,” he says. “You have to wait ten days ‘fore …show more content…
“Smells like gun powder. You sure it’s new?”
“They fire them in the factory once or twice. Nothing more.”
I turn it in my hands, satisfied. “I’ll take it. Ten days you say?”
“Ten days.”
I detest the idea of waiting, but there’s nothing to be done about it. The thought that a man might change his mind in ten days baffles me. Ten days only strengthens one’s resolve. Ten days gives time to make plans and calculate outcomes.
He takes my information and I sign a contract I cannot see. I’ll return in ten days with cash enough for the balance and a box of ammunition. What a waste. Only one bullet will be needed.
My cane leads the way to sidewalk. The air is cold but the sun is warm on my face between the trees. Crape Myrtle. I know from the scent of flowers mixing with fresh clover and something grassy, alfalfa perhaps, already in the air. I sniffle, sneeze, and wipe my wet hand on my pants. I’ll be up all night scratching itchy eyes.
Ten days.
I tap, tap, tap until the cane falls away from the curb and step off without hesitation. Twenty-three steps to the bus stop and a ten minute wait for the bus brings me to work.
“Hi Larry!” Wendy calls from her desk. “Warm out there, …show more content…
Someone figured a blind man wouldn’t care which way he faces.
“It’s been slow. Just one call this morning from a talker. Nothing serious.”
She’s blinded by optimism and naïve enough to think she’s actually making a difference. I know better. A seriously suicidal person cannot be saved by a stranger on the phone.
She bubbles on, “Do you want me to stay and keep you company?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Sure? Then I’ll be off. Call if things get busy.”
“I will.”
I wait until she departs and press the play button on the portable player sitting on my desk. The cd whirls to life and the sad musings of Mozart’s Requiem in D minor fill the room.
When the phone rings, I stop the music and note the time on the clock.
“Meadowlands Suicide Hotline. How can I help?”
Choppy static answers.
I’ve never hung up on a caller. Not yet. “Meadowlands Suicide Hotline. If you don’t talk, I can’t help you.”
Sniffling is followed a young girl’s thready voice. “Hello?”
“What’s your
The crinkling of a tin can adds a dissonant overtone to the man’s gurgling belch. “What you gonna shoot?”
“You going to sell me the thing or what?” I imagine a squishy face with French-fry pores lubricating double chins.
“Of course. No law against a blind man buying a gun. But you gotta wait the 10-day cooling-off period first.”
“Ten days? For what?”
“To keep lunatics from shooting anything they damn well please!”
“Well, that’s absurd!”
“All the same,” he says. “You have to wait ten days ‘fore …show more content…
“Smells like gun powder. You sure it’s new?”
“They fire them in the factory once or twice. Nothing more.”
I turn it in my hands, satisfied. “I’ll take it. Ten days you say?”
“Ten days.”
I detest the idea of waiting, but there’s nothing to be done about it. The thought that a man might change his mind in ten days baffles me. Ten days only strengthens one’s resolve. Ten days gives time to make plans and calculate outcomes.
He takes my information and I sign a contract I cannot see. I’ll return in ten days with cash enough for the balance and a box of ammunition. What a waste. Only one bullet will be needed.
My cane leads the way to sidewalk. The air is cold but the sun is warm on my face between the trees. Crape Myrtle. I know from the scent of flowers mixing with fresh clover and something grassy, alfalfa perhaps, already in the air. I sniffle, sneeze, and wipe my wet hand on my pants. I’ll be up all night scratching itchy eyes.
Ten days.
I tap, tap, tap until the cane falls away from the curb and step off without hesitation. Twenty-three steps to the bus stop and a ten minute wait for the bus brings me to work.
“Hi Larry!” Wendy calls from her desk. “Warm out there, …show more content…
Someone figured a blind man wouldn’t care which way he faces.
“It’s been slow. Just one call this morning from a talker. Nothing serious.”
She’s blinded by optimism and naïve enough to think she’s actually making a difference. I know better. A seriously suicidal person cannot be saved by a stranger on the phone.
She bubbles on, “Do you want me to stay and keep you company?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Sure? Then I’ll be off. Call if things get busy.”
“I will.”
I wait until she departs and press the play button on the portable player sitting on my desk. The cd whirls to life and the sad musings of Mozart’s Requiem in D minor fill the room.
When the phone rings, I stop the music and note the time on the clock.
“Meadowlands Suicide Hotline. How can I help?”
Choppy static answers.
I’ve never hung up on a caller. Not yet. “Meadowlands Suicide Hotline. If you don’t talk, I can’t help you.”
Sniffling is followed a young girl’s thready voice. “Hello?”
“What’s your