Richard Brown
Blind Men
in
Headphones
Eddie sat in front of his
lunch and raised his new cordless headphones to his ears with a small smile
full of equal parts anticipation, relief, and vengeance. The headphones fit
snugly over his ears, covering them completely. They were noise-canceling, and
they lived up to their claim. He couldn’t hear a thing from the restaurant, the
street, or even the construction crew working outside. He craved the isolation.
The day had started with a
simple doctor’s appointment at the hospital. He was going to get some answers
about how urgent his kidney situation really was. Did he need dialysis? Was it
a foregone conclusion that he would? He’d had labs drawn that morning, which
was a pain in the ass… well, okay, a pain in the arm. He made the complicated
turns down the hallway to the reception desk.
The receptionist called
him over. “I’m ready
for you here, sir.” It was a pleasant,
friendly voice.
“Hi, I have an appointment
at 11:40” Eddie told
her.
“Oh, no, that’s
not possible” she said. “The
clinic closes at 11:30. The doctors have all left. What’s your name?”
“Eddie Filbert.”
He replied. “I received
multiple reminders – both texts and calls – saying that my appointment is at
11:40.”
“Your appointment
was at 10:45. You’re an hour
late. We can see if the scheduler is still here, and try to reschedule for
you.” She told him.
“I live forty miles
away and I’m blind!” he
nearly yelled at her. “I arranged for my ride here and back based on the time
that I had been told! 11:40. My ride home won’t be here for another hour and a
half!”
He
walked out before she was finished explaining how they would call him to
reschedule. He decided to walk the block to the local ChickMaster for a decent,
if overpriced, chicken sandwich instead of the overpriced slop they were sure
to be serving in the hospital cafeteria.
Besides, Ember needed the
exercise and excitement.
Eddie and Ember were
regulars at this ChickMaster, so Ember guessed their destination as soon as they
left the hospital.
“Whaddya think, Em?
Which two letters did some
‘street artist’ change? Does it say ‘DickMaster’, or ‘CockMaster’, now?” That
was the kind of mood Eddie was in. He followed as Ember led him around some
construction that extended onto the sidewalk.
Eddie ordered a
chicken-bacon-Swiss, and the cashier told him Maggie would bring it out to
him. He found a booth, impolitely
ignored the comments from other customers telling him how beautiful and
well-behaved Ember was, and stowed her under the table.
Ember stood up when Maggie
brought the food, as always, so Eddie spent an irritable minute settling his
Guide Dog down again and commanding her
to “lay down!”.
Then he applied his new
headphones, and escaped into distraction. He cranked up the volume. Led
Zeppelin always sounded better the louder he played them.
“…eight ducklings followed
the mother…” the girl was saying.
“’With a hundred and ten
coronets right behind’” the old man cut in.
“Huh?” Her blank look was
more eloquent than that one syllable could ever be.
He shook his head and waved
his hand in a dismissive gesture. “It’s a song. From an old movie. Go on.”
That was when the Buick
LeSabre crashed through the window next to their table, crushing them both
beneath a lethal combination of machinery and masonry.
One of the young men
sitting two tables behind the old man thought, What funny headlights,
and then the turn signals burst into action. The yellow light from the
right-turn indicator struck all three of the other customers… but not Eddie or
Ember… in their heads just before their heads exploded. The left turn signal
caught the cashier in the face before the light became the glaring high beam
from the headlight and punched the entire ribcage, including lungs and heart,
through the cook’s back. He had rushed out of the kitchen to see what had
happened in the front of the restaurant. The lights continued their sweeping
arcs until stopping just behind and in front of Eddie’s booth, who had chosen
the table directly across from the old man and young girl.
The Captain spent only one
brief instant of awe in contemplation of the fact that terrestrials had created
over forty-four thousand of the ideal spacecraft decades ago, but stubbornly
used the wrong fuel source, thereby keeping it Earthbound. They could have
taken over the universe back in 1982, thought the Captain.
“Okay, you two – change out
the headlights and turn signals. You two – remove the fuel crystals. You others
– retrieve the pilot, dead or alive.” His crew rushed to obey. They knew they
only had moments before things got messy.
When the lieutenant
reported that all commands had been obeyed, the Captain asked, “Any witnesses?”
“Three” the lieutenant
answered, “but one was cowering behind the half-wall with its arms over its
head. We dissolved it. One was what the terrestrials call a dog, and despite an
old television show, there is no evidence that they can comprehend dog-speech.
The third was placed perfectly to witness everything, but seemed to have no
awareness, so we left it alone.”
“Judgement call,
Lieutenant. Hopefully, the Council looks favorably upon your choice. I’ll
report such to the Supreme One, though I doubt they’ll be in a good mood when
hearing of this”.
“Yes, Captain.”
Eddie couldn’t take it any
longer. Ember kept standing up. She shouldn’t do this, Eddie thought, maybe she
has to pee? It’s not time yet…
He turned off his
headphones, lowered them to around his neck, and asked, “Are you ready, then?”
He stood up out of the booth, mumbled “Excuse me” as he bumped into the table
across the aisle from him, and edged past. He stepped on something spongy and
heard a crunch. “I’m sorry, I think I stepped on your glasses case…” he said.
When no response came, he hurried out the door.
At least his headphones
worked like a charm.
END
Richard
Brown has written speculative fiction for both Black Petals and Yellow Mama. He
and his Guide Dog, Edison, haunt the Pacific Northwest.
