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The Itinerant Teacher of the Blind published in issue #7 Kiss Machine

I carry out the simplest tasks in an extreme and deliberate manner, brushing my teeth until my gums bleed, peeing into the darkness until I hit the bowl.

If not for the children I might send a bullet into my useless brain and open it to the light.

I take a pink pill each morning (I’m told it is pink and I trust the woman who tells me, she is my wife) with a glass of orange juice, swat the hair brush through the textured surface of my head, and rush off, hoping not to trip on cracks in the sidewalk. Thank God for the children and their bright, fearless optimism.

The lock on my brief case releases with a click. The students shout ‘hello, Mr. Gardner’. I bend from the waist. Fingers poke at my nose and pull down on my lip. One hand is so clean that I smell the morning soap and imagine the mother.

When I picture my students none of them have eyes.

“Please make note of this. On the first Friday of each month, I will be outside the classroom, traveling to the next jurisdiction.”

Fingers snap, crack, pop.

“One at a time please.”

A book slams shut.

“Careful you’ll ruin the Braille.”

A gentle tap.

“Second desk, third row. Yes?”

“Mr. Gardner it’s Olcaro.”

“I know who you are.”

(Laughter.)

“If we have to reach you…say a government official has stopped us at the border during our migration south.”

“You have my business card. Pre-program your phones with my number. I will try to explain our unique circumstance and why we travel together in a group.”

The woman sighs, stands up and pours herself another cup of tea. I hear the scratching of her nylons as she sits back down.

“At exactly five o’clock, visually impaired men like myself pour out of the downtown towers. Our well-trained black dogs guide us to the subway. God forbid if anyone blocks our way.”

“Have you been sleeping well? I can give you medication.”

“My wife claims I scream out in the middle of the night so she sleeps in another room. I remember very little of my dreams. But I feel this obligation to invent stories for you.”

“We’re here to focus on your problems.”

“Does a teacher not act as an entertainer in this age of multi-medias? It’s not something I can switch on or off.”

“Well, at least you are aware of it.”

“Besides, I’ve developed a fondness for one of my students. I seek to impress her upon her that being blind is not such a handicap.”

“You must not touch her.”

“Oh, I understand that all too well. I work with my remaining senses.”

Shuffling steps erasing the landscape. Eyes blink, can’t see through the opacity of lids. In my darkness, I move comfortably, shave myself, needing no mirrors. My friends disappear. How does one know? Anything?

My computer reads out my e-mail in a loud, burpy voice.

Standing on the Franklin Bridge, I trust my feet.

I am hideous, my face a Halloween mask. Almost a blessing that I can only feel the hell of it, my fingers touching cracks in the skin where the grafts have pulled away, the empty orbs where my eyes used to reside. I tried glass eyes but kept losing them.

I’m told my lips curl up in a permanent smile as if I’ve discovered the secret of happiness.

If I’m not careful, drool collects in the corners of my mouth, and bubbles fly out when I speak. Or at least that’s what my wife has told me. I believe her. It’s not in her best interest to weaken me by unnecessary criticism.

I hear the buzz of the bell and the electronic voice announcing the hour.

“Please find your seats, class.”

Kamler cries out as he walks into a desk.

“Gia please help him.”

Soon everything is as quiet as before.

I place my hands on Kamler’s shoulders.

“Of all the things you saw before your accident, what do you miss the most?”

“Faces.”

A bell rings. I close one book and open another.

“Hello students.”

“Hello Mr. Gardner.”

“Remember, dogs are not allowed; white canes are confiscated. We’re left to our own devices. So how do we travel the hallways of our brand new school?”

Their young, enthusiastic voices cry out: “A weave to the rubber mats; numbers embedded in the walls, warning buzzers on the exit doors, thresholds of wind near the stairwells.”

My barber Leonardo is a close friend. I trust that he gives me a good haircut. I wish to believe him when he says his nephew Simon enjoys my classroom.

A mountain or a lake. It is does not matter. Both forbid my occupation.

I track my progress home by the barking of the neighbourhood dogs. Henry says nothing but allows me the handle on his back.

My wife fills our home with the smell of a fresh-baked apple pie. The cinnamon bites the surface of my fingers.

How does one become a teacher of the blind? What qualifications are required?

You study to be a teacher like all the others, followed by one year at the Institute and when you graduate they assign you to a school and give you students to practice on. But your curiosity moves you forward. Soon you apply for a transfer, move to another city, begin the process all over again, memorizing a school’s layout and hearing voices for the first time. Nothing quite matches the crisp feel of a brand new textbook, flipping pages previously untouched.

I sense this particular student by a chemical change to the air, even before I smell her, or hear the hello forming on her lips.

Sometimes I think it’s all a bad dream, and that I am truly handsome and can see but choose not to because the world is such an ugly place.

I puff up my chest, tighten my stomach muscles and twist slightly to stretch the lycra.

I chalk my hands, jump up until my fingers grasp the cold steel of the high bar. I swing several times, awakening my strength, shifting the hair out of my eyes.

I build momentum. The next time I do a complete loop. Follow it with several more.

When I have enough speed, I let go. I’m flying. Such a small mercy to discover I have wings. My hands reach for the bar. But I miss and drop to the rubber mat with a tremendous slap. I do a tumble, keeping my head tucked in, then stretch out in pain.

“Oh God,” I yell.

“Mr. Gardner you are such a hypochondriac.”

Even her feet smell good.