NIGHTFALL

1
Hands off.
I said hands off the body!
Do you think I’m some kind of property, public domain, a pawn you can move here or there with
Do you think I have fewer rights by virtue of my disability?
Do I, in your eyes, look like some kind of property, public domain, a pawn you can move here or there with impunity?
Do you think I have fewer rights by virtue of my disability?
Do I, in your eyes, deserve pity?
How about contempt?
Condescension?
You don’t?
Then how would you describe the situation?
You arrive at an intersection of two busy streets. You notice a blind person, complete with white cane, standing at the corner—well, not truly at the corner but near enough—so you decide to take action.
You don’t ask if you can help, because, let’s face it, I’m a lesser being, less knowledgeable, less capable of taking care of myself, defending myself.
So you grab my arm.
Right so far?
And thinking you know my destination, you wait till the light turns green—we both see the WALK sign light up, and you pull me across the six lanes of traffic.
Arriving here, across the street from my previous position, you discharge your responsibility, relinquish me to my own desires.
Let me tell you something, Citizen. Had I not had enough vision to see you, see my surroundings, the availability of help if I really needed it, you’d be on the underside of the sidewalk, pushing up wildflowers.
I didn’t ask for your help, because I wasn’t going anywhere.
I didn’t ask for assistance, Citizen, because I wasn’t going anywhere, but waiting for the bus.
Oh, not to catch it, not to go somewhere, but to meet someone and go to lunch.
Eighteen years in the city, and I can navigate these streets better than you, know where to go, which locations to avoid. I know where I feel safe—and up until now, that included this intersection.
Until now, you didn’t know that, did you?
Of course not. You didn’t stop to ask any questions, assuming that you had more rights, more knowledge, a civic responsibility.
What if, Citizen, someone approached you from behind, grabbed you without announcing intentions—what would you do?
Attack, perhaps?
Defend yourself—definitely.
Ask questions—later, after the event, when danger’s passed.
If anyone, anywhere, anytime, were to treat you like you’ve treated me, as if I were less than fully human, a slave, a piece of property or a possession, we’d be at a police station, and I’d be facing arrest for assault.
But because I’m disabled—or you think I am—for you, it’s different, allowed, and accepted.
Not quite.
Because I face the world at a disadvantage, I’ve studied judo, and could have, if I’d really felt threatened, brought you down without warning.
Because I lack certain knowledge of the world, I am always on the defensive.
Notice, Citizen, that my hands were prepared, my cane, quickly folded, now a legal weapon, ready in my left hand.
One false move…
And because you assumed facts you didn’t know
, I could identify you, press my own charges of assault against you.
You saw the cane. Conclusion: he can’t see at all.
While I read Braille, I retain low vision, enough to move through the streets of any city, revealing r concealing my disability as I choose.
The cane, when I use it at all, is for legal protection, but also for self-defense, did you know that?
With one swing, one upward thrust, your neck is broken, okay?
You didn’t ask.
You didn’t know.
Now who’s disabled?
Hands off the body!

2
BLIND coming through!
One side! One side!
BLIND coming through!
And when we stopped running, we would drop to the ground.
Push-ups!
One!
Two!
Three!
Four!
Five!
Six!
Seven!
Eight!
Nine!
Ten!
Eleven!
Twelve!
Thirteen!
Fourteen!
Fifteen!
Sixteen!
Seventeen!
Eighteen!
Nineteen!
Twenty!
And we ran.
And why we ran?
We ran because we could that day, because we were thirteen, and blind, uncatchable, existing just beyond authority, never out of reach of help if we needed it, that summer of 1997.
Behind us, Dana, Scott and Jack struggled for control, struggled to move through the packed amusement park, Dana, our counselor for the day, trying to keep us within sight, if not within the five feet proscribed by summer camp rules.
…
BLIND coming through!
One side! One side!
BLIND coming through!
…
Jumping Jacks!
One!
Two!
Three!
Four!
Five!
Six!
Seven!
Eight!
Nine!
Ten!
Eleven!
Twelve!
Thirteen!
Fourteen!
Fifteen!
Sixteen!
Seventeen!
Eighteen!
Nineteen!
Twenty!
Run!
Through the park,
Weaving through the crowds,
Dividing families in the act of picture taking,
Scaring children and adults alike,
The image of two teenage boys, one black, one white, holding hands, running hell-bent, free for a day, oblivious of punishments to come for this indiscretion--onward we ran.
Like a game of Cat & Mouse, we eluded, dodged, evaded.
Like pranksters, we climbed up, over, under tables, ducked into and out of restaurants, indivisible, inevitable, inexcusable.
Onward!

BLIND coming through!
One side! One side!
BLIND coming through!

Sit-ups!!
One!
Two!
Three!
Four!
Five!
Six!
Seven!
Eight!
Nine!
Nine!
Ten!
Eleven!
Twelve!
Thirteen!
Fourteen!
Fifteen!
Sixteen!
Seventeen!
Eighteen!
Nineteen!
Twenty!
Run!
We passed others of our group of hundreds, counselors and campers obedient to rules and manners, waiting patiently in line for rides, waiting for food, waiting for someone to emerge from a bathroom or a gift shop.
Those who could look, looked.
Those who couldn’t look—they heard us yelling at the top of our lungs as we fled past,
Running up hill,
Downhill,
Around and around the concessions,
Over, under around, through,
Until
The sun began to set,
Until
The drivers returned to their busses,
Until
We had one last trick up our sleeve.

“I’ll like a Pepsi, please.”
“What about your friend,” the concessionaire asked.
I looked.
I turned my head, didn’t see him next to me.
“What friend?”
“Behind you,” she said.
“Oh, him. He’s not my friend, he’s my identical twin.”
If once,
Only once,
I could have had enough vision to read the expression on her face that moment,
It would have been priceless.
But I couldn’t.
And Dana and Jack and Scott, our witnesses of sorts on our day of rampage, finally caught up to us.
We stood, composed, at ease, sodas in hand, blood still pumping, prepared for flight yet again.
But the day We fell meekly into line with other campers, to board the buses, beginning the long trip back to Malibu,
To Camp Bloomfield,
Home for the next week,
Until Summer Camp was over for another year.


3
Q. what color is this jacket.
A. Red.
Q. What kind of red? Red as a rose? Red, like the flag? Red, like your favorite lipstick?
A. Blood-red.
Q. What color is this blouse.
A. Blue.
Q. What kind of blue?
A. What does it matter what kind of blue. It’s just blue.
Q. It’s important. What kind of blue?
A. Baby blue.
Q. What color is the carpet?
A. Cream.
Q. How many fingers do I have up now?
A. I don’t care.
Q. It could be the last thing you see. How could that be unimportant?
A. Okay, okay. Eleven.
Q. You’re not cooperating.
A. You’re catching on.
Q. Tell me what’s green.
A. Grass, in the spring and summer.
Money, if you can call that color truly green.
Christmas trees are green.
So is the elm.
As is the oak.
As is the pine.
As is ivy.
As is—
Signal lights are green.
Q. what about orange?
A. The 76 ball at the gas station, an orange, of course, those safety cones that Cal Trans uses to block off lanes.
Q. What about blue? What’s blue?
A. Water can be blue.
Bluebells!
Eyes.
My Porsche dream car, a beautiful royal blue.
My niece, Jessica’s toy-box.
Q. Pink?
A. Flowers.
Q. Which flowers?
A. I don’t go around memorizing names of flowers. .
Q. Maybe we should pick up with this tomorrow.
A. Yeah, maybe.


4
One year! At best, at the outside, two.
According to Dr. Meridian, according to God--that’s it.
Lights out.
Show’s over.
And as the colors fade to black, what will I see as my last image? A delta summer sunrise? Fireworks on the Fourth of July? My best friend, Meghan, feeding her newborn daughter?
Don’t know. I really don’t know
Do I want to know? Do I want to have that knowledge that this is the last thing I will see, so treasure it?
Believe me, Dr. M., I ask myself that question every day.
You think your news today was a revelation, an epiphany? It wasn’t. it isn’t.
I’ve known. I’ve always known.
Living in the twilight, as I’ve done for nearly thirty years, I’ve always been aware, always accepted that it could all go away, it could all disappear without warning, without preamble, without mercy.
Won’t know until after the fact. That’s the bitch of it. There’s no controlling it, no predicting it.
Dr. Meridian is only guessing.
Aren’t you, Dr. Meridian?
Can’t just wait, still as stone, with one image before me—for two years, come on!
Can’t set it up.
Can’t predict the moment that will be the last—my twilight.
So, I’ll just have to go on living each day, as I’ve done for twenty-eight years.
here’s your cane?
Hanging on a hood behind the front door.
Have you arranged your medicine cabinet? You don’t want to take the wrong prescription.
Yes. Everything’s Braille-labeled.
Will you rearrange the furniture? Will you make it easy on yourself? Or have you memorized the placements of every little thing?
Tomorrow, next week, someday.
Not good enough.
Good enough for me.
What if--?
If if if. If necessary, I’ll punt.
where’s your checkbook?
In the drawer under the table by the front door.
Is that a safe place for it?
The two drawers on either side are fake. No one will look there.
Are you ready for blindness.
I think so.
Are you prepared for darkness?
I’ve always been prepared.
what about the piece of metal that got imbedded in your cornea.
That was scary.
How did you handle it?
Like anyone else would, I think. I stayed home, waiting out the healing process.
Uh-huh.
I did.
So, how prepared are you for nightfall?
Prepared enough. Besides, there’s still time.
How much time?
One year, maybe two.
Really?
That’s what Dr. Meridian said yesterday. Ask him.


6
It’s not like I never knew it would come to this.
In fact, I’ve known since my mid-teens, haven’t I?
Someday, some indefinite time in the future, my luck would run out, along with the supply of undamaged soft tissue.
No more corneas.
No more medicine.
No more fears of rejection.
No more rainbows.
No more green Grass.
No more red white and blue—no more star-spangled banners.
No more red fire hydrants.
No more purple Lakers jackets, or green Celtics jackets.
No more pristine white walls.
No more black-and-white chess boards.
No more color TV.
No more living in a paper-doll world, where depth perception is a foreign concept, where everybody and everything could be mistaken for a cleverly designed series of facades, stage props, created for their illusion value.
And now, that day is close to arriving.
Don’t know the exact date.
Will I wake up one morning with the knowledge that this will be the last day of vision?
Will I have any warning, any dimming of the lights, before the final blacking out.
It’s not like I’m not prepared though.
Already know braille.
Know how to use a cane.
Already listen to books on tape, from history to romance.
Thanks to technology, I can get most of what I need for reading material from the internet—not available ten, fifteen years ago.
Already know how to take the bus. (Never had a driver’s license in my life!)
And, which is most important, I already know how to ask for help.
I know what I can do for myself—at least, I know what I can do with my limited vision. Sure I’ll have to relearn my limitations once night falls for good, but it shouldn’t take that long, should it?
Probably slow me down by a step, maybe two. Can’t walk so fast in a world you can’t see at all.
Have to learn how to arrange my things so I don’t look like a total idiot when I dress myself. Tag my clothes so I know which colors are which, what goes with what.
And I’ll probably have to rearrange this apartment differently, take the furniture out from the middle of the floor, pick up my shit so there’s less to trip over, and remember where I put things.
One year, hopefully two.
Time to practice total blindness.
Time to rearrange the furniture, get it to my liking.
Time to figure out what I’ll do when that day of darkness comes.
Maybe I should retake Mobility Training, freshen up on my cane technique.
Things to Do:
Go to baseball game,
Go to basketball games, Watch the action, the unbelievable passes, the impossible shots, athletes at their peak.
Fly a kite! watch it rise and rise and rise, ascending above the trees, tugged ever higher until it is a dot, a red and white speck, against the blue of the sky.
And as the kite soars, children run randomly past, in search of a hot dog, a Coke, a playmate, a parent.
Spend time at the Central Gardens, tending the flowers,
Run in a 10K. There’s nothing like it, hundreds of people gathered together, the same obsession at the center of their thoughts, one word reverberating—WIN, WIN, WIN, WIN!
Bicycle to San Francisco, see Pier 39 and Ghirardelli Square,
Go to the museum, see the paintings and sculpture,
Walk through the city, memorizing every hill, every bump in the sidewalk, every curve of the streets, finding landmarks I’ll still be able to find when that day comes.
Get my degree—should be easy enough. Can’t count on the second year, so better cram and do it in one. I can do it!
I’ll be busy for the next year.
Lots of things to do, people to be with, challenges to be met and conquered.
I wonder who’ll be with me, who’ll stand by me, when I need more help, when I find I can’t do some of the things I can do today?
Connie and Elizabeth? Probably. They’re already in the dark, so they’ll be able to give me tips.
Scott? I wonder if he’ll handle it. Only time will tell, right?
The Penbrokes? The parents will do okay, but Michael and Laura and Esmeralda—I don’t know. I won’t be able to join in the games of Tag anymore. What will that do their judgment of me?
Jana. She’ll definitely freak. Won’t know when to help and when to step back and let me try my hand—at whatever it is.
Tyler? He’s seen some bad stuff, seen people dead, so I don’t think it’ll phase him in the slightest. He might even be the first person I call when it happens.
I need to think.
Let me put on some music, put my feet up, tune in, tuning out.
There, that’s better.
God, with the news I got today, I wonder what my dreams will be like from now on?
I wonder if I’ll still dream in color?
There’s nobody to ask that question though.
If you can hear, then lose your hearing, you can still remember music in all its beauty, can’t you?
So why can’t I keep the colors, the sights and knowledge I’ve acquired in twenty-eight years of life?
I think I can!
To be able to draw on that vision-memory, even years after the light’s gone out, that’s what’ll keep me from losing my sanity.
I’ll touch clothes in the store, being told that it’s red or white or pink—and I’ll know what the salesman is talking about!
Listening to a baseball game, when the announcer says that it’s a lazy fly-ball, I’ll know what it looks like for the white ball to be floating in a blue sky before it falls back to earth, to be caught or dropped by the center fielder!
I’ll know the beauty of spring when the weather changes and the temperature begins to rise! When the green returns, when the blossoms come—I’ll know and understand!
I’ll still listen to the music, marvel at the sound of fingers on strings, wishing I could learn to play the guitar!
I’ll still escape on the blast of a trumpet, soaring high in the music!
I’ll know by touch when the counter-top is clean, when the dishes are spotless, when laundry is ready for folding.
I may be losing my vision, but I’ll be damned if I’ll lose my freedom in the process!
My sisters won’t be here.
Mom won’t be here.
Grandma and Grandpa won’t be here.
Not until I master my own life, learn the cans and can’ts that come with the nightfall.
Oh my God! What time is it?
Sorry, Dr. Meridian, I don't have any more time for your worrying.
I’ll be prepared, just watch and see.
Yeah, right, as if the world’s listening, as if they care.

It was supposed to be one year!
Dr. Meridian, you said it would be a year, maybe two.
CURTAIN