for the fountain. On purpose, but she doesn’t know that. It’s only shin high and she probably thinks I’ll plow into it. My cane strikes the rim and I stop. No one says anything.
Except a little boy nearby whispers loudly, “Mom! Mom! Look!”
Who knows what that’s about. Maybe me or maybe a turd floating in the fountain. Now comes the tricky part: orienting to the shoe store from here.
“She’s pretending she’s blind!” the boy says in a whisper loud enough to echo.
It’s always a question whether or not to ignore these things. I can tell he isn’t far away, so I lean toward him a bit.
“I’m not pretending,” I say in a loud whisper. “I’m really blind. And not deaf.”
He gasps and I hear scrambling. Maybe he’s hiding behind his mom.
“Then why’re you wearing a blindfold?” he asks.
“Come on, Donnie,” says a young woman. “Don’t bother her.”
“I wear it because it’s pretty. And because Japanese pilots in World War Two wore them when they crashed into things on purpose. Sometimes I crash into things too, though not on purpose.”
I realize this might be offensive, even if they aren’t Japanese. Too late now.
“Kamikaze!” he shouts, followed by plane noises, bullet noises, and an explosion noise, all of which probably adds several ounces of spit to the air.
With that taken care of, it’s time for the tricky part. The wing of the mall with the shoe place, Running Rampant, is opposite the fountain, which is round. It works best if I tap my way around by sidestepping, always trying to face the same way without pivoting, or else it’s hard to keep track of my direction. As I do it, the airplane noises diminish. When I think I’m there, it’s time to see if I got it right.
I walk far enough forward to know I’m generally in the main wing, and then I start trending toward the right, where I know the store is. I manage not to bump into anyone, like people who are probably just facing away, gawking at the window displays or whatever, and don’t hear my taps.
When I reach the doorway I pass through and walk straight until I tap a barrier that should be a shoe display. I reach out and touch canvas and shoelaces. Success. Now it’s a waiting game, and usually a short one.
“May I help you?”
It’s a guy’s voice. Maybe my age. I don’t recognize it.
“That depends. Do you work here?”
He chuckles. “Yeah, I’m an employee. Want to touch my name tag?”
“Not until we know each other better. Unless it’s in braille.”
“It’s not. It says Jason. Are you looking for someone?”
“Nope.” I lift my right leg a bit and turn my foot to the side. “Can I get a new pair of these in an eight?”
“Hmmm … I don’t think we carry those anymore.”
“The closest thing is fine. I’m not that picky.”
“In black?”
“Definitely. I am picky about that. No stripes or colors or any wacky stuff. If I run at night I want to get hit by a car because they can’t see me.”
“You might as well run at night since you don’t need any light. I’ll be right back.”
He leaves. No reaction to me running at night, or running at all; he even made a crack about it. I could like this guy. Except I don’t know if he’s seventeen or twenty-seven and that’s a tough thing to ask, even for me.
I say “No thank you, I’m being helped” to three different people before Jason returns.
“There’s an empty bench about three steps to your right,” he says.
While I tap over and sweep my hand, he keeps talking. “I don’t know if you care about brands—”
“I don’t.” I find the bench and sit down.
“Okay. They discontinued the shoes you’re wearing and replaced them with these, which are close but they put in more arch support and some B.S. spring-foam technology in the heel that doesn’t help but doesn’t hurt either. Do you want me to lace them for you?”
He asked me. He’s racking up points now.
“Give me one and you do the other.” I hold out a hand and a shoe lands in it.
“Sure thing.” He sits down next to me. “We can race.”
I have lots of experience lacing shoes but he works here so I’m guessing he’ll win.
“Are you a runner?” I ask. “Or is this just a job?”
“Why not both? But yeah, I run.”
“You ever run track in school?” I ask. Very smooth.
“Still do. Well, if I make the team, which seems likely. Tryouts are next week.”
“Where do you go?”
“I’m a senior at Adams, now. What about you?”
“Ah, you’re one of the immigrants. I’m a native.”
“Really?”
Now I wonder if he’s playing me. Not to be conceited or anything but what are the odds that he’s never seen me and my blindfold tapping around school?
It’s too much to let go. “You haven’t seen me around?”
“No, I guess we don’t have any of the same classes.”
“Or walk the same halls, or eat in the same cafeteria.”
He laughs. “I just walk the track with a granola bar at lunchtime.”
I finish lacing. “Time. You finished already?”
“Uhhh …” he says. “Yeeeeeaaaaaah … finished … Here.”
“I won, didn’t I?”
“You’ll never know.”
Wow, taking advantage of my blindness in a safe, playful way in the first five minutes.
I put on both shoes and stand.
“You have about three or four clear steps in front of you. If you want more, I can clear out an aisle for you.”
“No, this is fine.” I bounce on my toes and run the shoes through some paces. They feel odd but in the usual way new shoes do. Otherwise good.
“How much?”
“Seventy-nine
