Blind Man

 

Dear lovely young woman in the small house on Fader Drive. Or—I shouldn’t lie—Juliette. I know your name is Juliette. Juliette Ireland. Such a beautiful name. Is Ireland an Irish name? I hope you do not mind my leaving this letter in your mailbox. I made sure to drop it off while you were at work so as not to frighten you. I understand that it might be startling to find a stranger like myself on your porch. Especially after what happened. It was important for me to write you, however. I have three aims with this letter: one, I would like to apologize; two, I will provide an explanation; and three, I wish to extend an invitation. I will deal with these matters in that order.

First of all, I am sorry. I know what I did was inappropriate and I regret the actions I took on Wednesday night. I do not blame you for screaming, for using the bar stool to chase me out of your house or for the bruises I gathered falling down your front steps. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you and I think we can both agree that I never did physically hurt you. I merely—and foolishly, I know—created a misunderstanding that may have caused you to worry. Well worry no more. I feel that after you have read my explanation you will understand where I was coming from and perhaps even sympathize with me. And if you should decline the forthcoming invitation: poof! I will disappear from your life forever though the thought of this outcome pains me to imagine. Again, I’m sorry.

With that out of the way I am sure you are dying to know why I did what I did. Before we get to Wednesday night, or even that first time I surprised you while you were smoking, I need to take you back a few weeks to the night of April 21.

Did you know that April 21 is the city of Rome’s birthday? It seems to me that our story beginning on the birthday of something as great and important as Rome is a wonderful omen. Anyway, it was a Saturday night and Jim Ruthers, an old colleague of mine, was in town for a conference. Ruthers and I once roomed together at McGill so we stay in touch. See? Already the picture is coming together a little more clearly: this strange man you chased out of your house is no sociopath. He has friends, they stay in touch and he went to a reputable university. So Ruthers and I convened at my apartment for a few drinks to catch up and after a couple of hours we found that my beer supply had depleted. We both agreed that our own spirits were still well stocked, however, and so decided to walk down to a bar for further refreshments and reminiscing. I rarely enjoy alcohol but I had not seen Ruthers for a few years and the two of us felt that the old college medicine might suit the occasion. We decided on Bart’s Ballroom, a youngsters’ hangout I am sure you are aware of due to its proximity to your own lodgings. Normally I would prefer a more sophisticated, quiet nightspot like the supper and jazz club on Leeman but Ruthers insisted on something nearby. It was on our walk to Bart’s that Ruthers suggested we play Blind Man, a game from our McGill days.

The premise of Blind Man is simple: all participants close their eyes and see who can make it the farthest towards the agreed-upon destination without looking. Back in the day Ruthers and I, full of youthful moxie, became quite adept at Blind Man. We traversed the streets of Montreal confidently and without injury, covering great distances, our eyes completely shut. That night on our way to Bart’s we were a little rusty. It was good fun, however, and we eventually made it to the bar. Ruthers and I downed a couple of pints, talked about the old times and then went our separate ways. I walked home alone and on the way some mischievous force within cajoled me into playing Blind Man solo. Perhaps it was the alcohol or maybe the excitement of rekindling my student memories but please know this: under normal circumstances I would never attempt Blind Man alone. It is too dangerous. With a companion, you have someone to assist should there be an accident and the communication that goes on between two players helps paint a better picture of the surroundings. “I’m stepping off the curb,” or “There is a brick wall here,” add to one’s own visualization of the area being sightlessly manoeuvred through. Anyway, whatever devil took over me, I went for it. And that is how I ended up in front of your house on Fader Drive.

Initially the shock I felt upon opening my eyes and finding myself in front of your house was due to having no idea where I was. I could have sworn I was on my own street which I’ll let you know is several blocks from yours. Yes, it had been years since Ruthers and I were able to move confidently through Montreal without looking and I had enjoyed more drink than I usually allow myself. But I know this town and I was moving carefully and slowly. I didn’t expect to land perfectly in front of my own building but I had calculated my steps so that I would at least end up on the correct street. It took me a minute to figure out where I was and when I spotted the street sign across from your house I could not believe my eyes.

Juliette, do you believe in fate? Or to be clearer, do you believe in signs? By signs, of course, I mean what people call “the universe trying to tell one something.” These operate just like ordinary messages except that when you try to identify who has sent the message it appears to have randomly sprung from the chaos of existence. For example, a man on a bridge preparing to jump to his death might spot a humorous piece of graffiti on the bridge wall as he is looking down. He might start to laugh, remember why it would be better to go on living and climb down safely. The graffiti was not put there because of him—at least he did not factor into the intentions of the graffiti artist—but it was there for him. It was a sign.

I did not think anything of the incident on the night of April 21. Whatever your initial impressions of me might have been, I am not insane. When I opened my eyes in front of your house and figured out where I was, I turned around and went home.

It was the following night, April 22, that things became interesting. At work that day I couldn’t stop thinking about how I had ended up so far from home despite my certainty that I had been following the proper route. After dinner I decided to walk down to Bart’s and try to Blind Man my way home again. This time I would be completely sober and particularly fastidious in choosing my steps. So I went. I was sober and I was careful and when I opened my eyes expecting to see my apartment building I saw your small house on Fader Drive. I had taken the exact path as the night before. To make an error twice is one thing but for the two errors to be identical is another. I went back to Bart’s and retraced my steps to your house, eyes open this time. I tried to imagine walking to my own home as I made my way towards Fader Drive but the turns, changes in elevation and even the distance were off. It didn’t make sense that I should make any of the choices I would have to make to get to your house if my intention was to walk home. I stared, confused, at the exterior of your house and that was when I began thinking of signs. I hadn’t even seen you yet.

That pleasure came the following week during an encounter I am sure you remember. It was exactly one week after my initial visit to your house. I was sitting at home pondering over the mystery of Fader Drive when I decided to give it another go. I walked down to Bart’s Ballroom, closed my eyes and attempted to walk back home. This time I visualized two routes on the map in my mind: the route to my home and the route to yours. Whenever I made a new decision I would calculate whether it would take me towards my apartment or towards your street and chose in favour of the former. I was about to open my eyes, certain I was approaching my building, when I heard your shout. Startled, I parted my lids and saw you back away from me. You were on your porch smoking a cigarette and I was walking across the lawn towards you. You yelled, “Hey!” and I ran.

Now I can only imagine what the scene must have looked like from your perspective. You on your porch, enjoying a nice smoke when a stranger begins walking directly towards you with his eyes closed. Then you, understandably, cry out and the man, somewhat less understandably, bolts like a frightened cat. I can only hope, Juliette, that you are also able to see it from my perspective. The shock of your initial shout, the realization I was not crossing the lawn in front of my building and the suddenness of being confronted by you came all at once. It was like waking from a pleasant dream to an earthquake shaking the room. It was overwhelming and I ran on instinct. If I had had the appropriate time to process everything, of course I would have explained myself there and then. Life just isn’t always as accommodating as we’d like it to be. So that was that. Now onto Wednesday night.

In the interest of full disclosure and so that any further misunderstanding might be avoided, I will admit to you that I did a little research during the interim of our initial meeting and our rather unfortunate reunion on Wednesday. While to you I was simply—and still may be—a lunatic, to me your home meant something special. It, or whatever might lie inside, was a sign. Some external force had put me there three times despite my own efforts to avoid your street entirely. So when I tell you that I went back on a couple of nights to watch your house with binoculars from across the street or that I peered through your windows and rifled through your garbage cans please note my good intentions. Even when I followed you on my bicycle to your place of work and to what I assume was your mother’s house, I was not stalking you. I was merely trying to interpret the sign I had been given. I will admit that I do find you quite attractive, Juliette. I’m sure you know that you are beautiful and if you do not, damn the backwards men of this world! But my appreciation for your visual charms is one thing and my surveillance measures are another. Which brings me to the explanation for why you found me in your bathroom on Wednesday night.

To reiterate: I am not trying to justify my actions, only explain. What I did was wrong. I never should have crossed the line and entered your home. That the side window into your living room was open, however, seemed like another sign to me. I knew you were away at work and that you live alone and so my intrusion would not cause any distress. There was a recycling bin along the side of the house to prop myself up to the window, the screen popped out easily and there was nobody around to witness the act. It seemed like fate to me.

Now you know what I was doing in your house; that much should be clear. The universe was telling me that something important—something I had to see—was inside. I walked around a bit, turned on a lamp or two and surveyed the surroundings. Nothing struck me at first aside from the fact that you seemed to be a clean tasteful woman of good habits. I enjoyed the Monet prints in the hallway. I’ll have to order a couple for my own apartment.

After a few minutes of innocent browsing I was hit with a sudden need to use your bathroom. Again, I’m no sociopath and the situation was causing me some stress. Breaking into strangers’ homes is not something I usually do and my bowels tend to act up when I’m nervous. I realize that a bathroom is a personal space and I never would have used your facilities if was not an emergency. This is where you found me.

So we have reached the final hurdle of my explanation. Everything up to this point should make sense now except for the state you found me in when you came home early from work. You must now understand what I was doing in your home in the first place but not why you should have found me shirtless and crying on your bathroom floor, clutching your bottle of hand cream. I would have been baffled too.

One thing I’ve been thinking about, over and over, since the night in question is whether it was fate that brought you home from work so early. I knew from the previous week that you normally finish your shifts at the restaurant around ten or eleven. Why on this particular night would you come home shortly after eight? I’m sure there was a good reason. Maybe you were not feeling well or it was a slow night. But maybe there was also a reason. Maybe you were supposed to catch me.

I’m not sure what you thought I was doing and I can only imagine what leaps your mind might have made given the scene presented but here is what happened: After relieving myself I was washing up in your sink when I noticed my shirt was on inside out. This mistake has happened to you before I’m sure. While caught up in the mystery and excitement of your home and what might be waiting for me inside I left my apartment in a rush and did not notice my error. So, I took my shirt off in your bathroom with the intention of putting it back on the correct way. Before I could do so, however, I was struck by my own image in the mirror. I’m not sure exactly what it was but it felt right. There are few occasions where I find myself bare-chested outside of my own apartment and when I saw myself standing exposed in your bathroom I thought, This is home. Please don’t take this for more than what it is. It was just a passing thought. Something felt good about looking at myself in your mirror as if I lived there with you.

Anyway, I was looking into your mirror when I noticed a patch of dry skin on my left shoulder. Nothing to be alarmed by, just something I hadn’t noticed. I had switched to a cheaper laundry detergent a few weeks prior which was probably the cause. I found the hand cream above your sink thinking it wouldn’t be a big deal to borrow a squirt for my shoulder. And then the scent hit my nose. It was my mother.

She was crushed by a train when I was six and I can’t remember much about her—just random images and feelings. But when the smell of your hand cream wafted before me I could see her. A perfect image of my mother presented itself to me: she was wearing a green dress, sitting beside my bed, reading me a story. I could even hear her voice which I had never been able to remember before. I sat down on the floor and cried. It was a very powerful moment and through my sobs I guess I failed to hear you come in the house.

The rest of the story you already know. You came into the bathroom, probably to investigate the strange noises you heard through the door, and found the man who had approached you, blindly, the week before. You screamed and ran into the kitchen. I followed you. I was hoping to explain myself then and there but you chased me out with the bar stool. I’m sure I would have reacted the same way were we to switch places. In the commotion, I fell down your front steps but managed to pull myself up and run off. I was not aware of this at the time but in case you didn’t notice I accidentally took your hand cream with me. Perhaps, subconsciously, I wanted to bring my mother home with me. And you have my shirt.

This brings us to the final matter: the invitation. You now know my side of the story and I can only hope you will trust my disclosure has been complete and honest. It may seem to you, as it did to me at first, that the sign I was given has been delivered in full. That perhaps the entire reason I was meant to find your home was to discover the cream and, in effect, a piece of my late mother. Something, call it intuition, tells me that our story is not over however. The cream is important and I will always cherish the fact that I was able to find it in your bathroom. But something about you and your house on Fader Drive still resonates with me. Maybe it was what I saw in the mirror—that feeling of being home. Don’t worry, I won’t break in again. I have realized my error and would never want to cause you further distress.

What I propose, instead, is that we meet. I am sure you know Wendell Park by the brewery. Meet me there on Monday afternoon at two o’clock. By the fountain. You can’t miss it. I know you have the day off but hopefully you are not visiting your mother. Bring my shirt, I will bring your cream and we can talk. If you allow me I would love to keep the cream but of course it is yours and I will return it if that’s what you’d prefer. If you choose to show up with a team of muscular men or even the police, I am helpless to stop you. The ball is in your court. I only hope that through reading this you have come to understand me and why I want to meet. The universe is trying to tell me something and you, Juliette, are a key part of it. I am putting my faith in you and the idea that this world contains meaning.