Driving the Blind Crazy

When I am not writing or podcasting, I engage in a strange professional activity. I drive around and show homes to complete strangers. For a number of years, I made things even odder. I would get in my car, and pretend I was a taxi. For the purposes of this story, we will call it a service on your phone called Myft.

One Sunday morning — Mother’s Day morning, in fact — I had been off showing pretty houses to ugly people, or perhaps it was the other way around, and decided to pick up a passenger or two. Happily, in the gig economy, you have complete control of your time. So I fired up the app and almost instantly was assigned a passenger. Eric had short brown hair and for some reason was wearing sunglasses in the postage-stamp sized image on his profile. He was close by, apparently at a local florist.

Perhaps three minutes later, I was pulling up. I spied a man standing outside, almost at attention. Brown hair, dark glasses. There was a large bouquet in one hand and a long walking stick in the other. Eric was blind.

I should say at this point that I don’t like the blind. They make me feel weak or somehow less able-bodied than I actually am. They’re able to move about in their world quite well, click-clacking down the street, either in complete blackness I assume, or perhaps in a world that resembles a Van Gogh painting. Further, whenever I see a blind person, I feel instantly responsible for them. PLEASE don’t walk into that plate glass window. PLEASE don’t bang your head or trip on those stairs. Even if they are within sight of dozens of other strangers, I’d somehow be to blame. Or at least I would blame myself. So, weirdly, it’s always a small comfort when they turn the corner, leave the store or board the bus. Whew! I came through again for those 20 seconds and now they are in someone else’s care.

I pulled up right next to Eric and was able to roll down the passenger window and call his name. He expertly found the handle and irritatingly climbed into the front seat. I held his flowers for a moment while he collapsed his cane and stowed it beneath his feet, then handed them back. I could see that we were going some distance, probably 20 miles. We pulled away.

“So, off to see Mom?” I offered idly.

“Well, no.” he said. “I’m not off to SEE anyone.”

“Oh my God!” I replied. “That’s just the expression. I didn’t mean to…”

“I’m just messing with you.” he interrupted.

I laughed to myself. I like this guy, I thought. Self deprecating. Good sense of humor and a spirit of play. This ride might be fun.

“This might seem like an odd question,” he said, “but are these flowers OK? The guy that helped me had them ready in an instant and I was worried I just paid top dollar for a dozen dead carnations.”

I was able to see the sticker reading ‘Mother’s Day Arrangement: $24.95.’

“It’s actually perfect,” I assured him. “It’s a couple carnations, one pink rose, babies’ breath and some greenery. Your Mom will love it.”

“Oh, good.” He was visibly relieved.

“People don’t really take advantage of your blindness do they?” I asked.

“No, most people are really nice,” he said, “but occasionally….” he trailed off. I sensed he had stories he didn’t want to share. Stories of spoiled food and being short changed, but I chose not to pry.

“Another odd question for you,” he said. “What’s the color of my shirt?”

“Red,” I replied.

“RED!? Goddammit! I thought it was grey!” he yelled. I said nothing, but was thinking, “What difference does it make? You’re BLIND!”

Eric was now irritated and I wasn’t at all sure why. He leaned his seat back slightly, set the flowers on the floor and pulled out an iPhone. And I quickly learned, perhaps obviously, that every app you and I use has also been adapted for the blind, all via verbal commands. I listened and was amused a bit at his anger. There is nothing funnier than sweet, kind or loving messages delivered with a ‘fuck you’ tone of voice.

“New message to Marylou,” he growled. “Great spending time with you and Steven. Have a fabulous Mother’s Day. Hope we can do it again soon. Send message. Message sent. Goddammit.”

“New message to Kate,” he muttered. “Got your message. I appreciate your kindness more than I can say. Let’s talk again soon. Send message. Message sent. Goddammit.”

He calmed down slightly and asked, “When you said it was red, did you mean like a burgundy?” He sounded hopeful.

“I’m afraid not,” I said. “That’s red. Cherry red. Tomato red. Cardinal red. You’re wearing a red turtleneck.”

“Yeah, I’m clear that it’s a turtleneck,” he replied.

“Right. Of course you are.”

Now curiosity was kicking in and I simply couldn’t help myself. I had to know why it mattered.

“Sooooo, you’re upset that you’re in red?” I asked. “Huh? I don’t get why it matters. You’re blind so as long as you’re not naked when I pull up, or when you arrive at your job or anywhere else, surely you’re good. No? You are literally the last person on the planet who’s wardrobe is going to be judged.”

He sighed heavily. And then tried to explain.

“I’m blind, right? I get all the attention I need. People are always watching me, watching OUT for me and it just seems like there are always eyeballs on me. I’m banging into chairs, kicking doors and tripping on things. My Mom orders clothes for me and she knows the rules. No buttons, no snaps and no ties. Everything is pulled on or a pullover. No bright colors. I haven’t always been blind. I know what red looks like and I don’t want it. Give me black, give me gray, give me brown or navy and that’s it. It has to be simple because this is hard enough.”

I had to admit that it made perfect sense. He continued.

“But my mother likes having people look out for me and she wants me to be as obvious as possible. So she will tell me ‘OK, Eric. Here is a new black sweater’ and then I find out later it’s actually orange. I keep trying to blend in and she’s endlessly dressing me like a fucking safety cone without my knowledge. My sister does it too.”

At this point, I had to laugh.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but that’s really funny and kinda cute at the same time. And I’m betting you’ve thrown away a lot of brightly colored clothes.”

“Oh no. Are you kidding?” he said. “That would be wasteful, according to Mom. So it’s all in my closet, carefully sorted so it’s never worn.”

He had calmed down and certainly saw the humor in it. But he had a legitimate gripe. His life was hard enough as it was. I told him briefly about how I do the exact thing he hates, namely watch over blind people when I see them and have a mild anxiety attack every time a threat or obstacle appears.

“So what should I do, if anything?” I asked him.

His reply was perfect in its simplicity. “Treat me and all blind people like you’d treat anyone else. I’m happy to have a door opened for me but only do it if you would do it for anyone that came along. Blind people are in control of their lives. I’ve been using this cane for 15 years. It’s not perfect, but I get along just fine. That said, please don’t let me step directly into the path of a speeding bus.”

I laughed again and said, “I’ll remember that.”

“Oh, and always know that blindness only affects the eyes. My ears are just fine. Every Monday, my boss yells ‘Hi, Eric! HOW WAS YOUR WEEKEND?!”

We turned off the highway and were shortly pulling into the driveway of a retirement home. His mother’s home. We pulled into the circular driveway in front, under a portico. It had started to rain.

“The front doors are green, apparently.” Eric said. “I need to go in there.”

“We just pulled into that drive. Those doors are 30 feet away, perpendicular from the car. And we’re under cover so you won’t get wet,” I said.

“Now that I know that I’m in red, can you at least tell me if this shirt looks clean? I spill coffee and get crumbs on things and then have no idea”, he said as he was climbing out of the car. He shook out his cane. I handed him the flowers.

“You look great,” I said. “No crumbs, no stains. Hair looks good and you’re ready to go. And your shirt matches your shoes perfectly.”

There was a pause.

“My shoes are red too?!” he asked.

“I’m afraid so, Eric.” I said.

“Goddammit.”

He turned away, closing the door as he went. Tap tap tap over to the double doors to reception. I tooted my horn and yelled, “don’t ruin her Mother’s Day!” He turned briefly, gave me a thumbs up, smiled and was gone.

*** This story is also featured on the Feb. 14, 2023 episode of the Dream Idiots podcast. Listen on Spotify, Apple Podcasts of wherever you listen to podcasts.