Despite everything, we managed to get by, Rick and I. I’m called Shau by the way, pronounced ‘Shoo’. Some people of average wit refer to us both as ‘Rickshaw’ behind our back(s).
We work for the State Department in Washington D.C. That sounds rather grand but we’re just telephonists, well-read perhaps, but telephonists nevertheless. The switchboard is on the fourth floor, overlooking Constitution Avenue. If you crane your neck you can just about make out the Washington monument---an obelisk is an odd shape when you come to think about it. The pointy bit at the top is apparently the same shape as the rocks which appear in the Nile when the flood waters abate. You can’t see the Vietnam monument though, and that’s because it’s buried in the subconscious of the Mall.
The Government has a policy of employing a quota of disabled people as well as minorities. (If the disabled were the majority they wouldn’t be called ‘disabled’.) Anyway a number of our colleagues in the switchroom are unsighted if not indeed blind. One of them is Margaret.
This morning Margaret is in good form. She’s been informed of a small inheritance coming her way. She shows Rick a copy of the will at coffee break. He reads it out for her, the whites of her eyes floating as she listens. Her guide dog sits growling nervously in the corner; he doesn’t like Rick or me.
“Stranger in blood,” Rick reads. “What does that mean?”
“Just that we’re not kin,” Margaret answers. “Wasn’t it good of him to remember me? He lived across the hall in my building.”
“Stranger in blood.” Rick tries it out again, relishing the sound, as Margaret records an incoming call on her Braille machine.
“I’ll let that party know,” she sings out before disconnecting.
I’ve seen Rick in better mood. He’s been out of sorts for some time now. I can always tell. I hope he’s not sickening for something. His eyes are slightly hooded, almost cowled. There is no point trying to humour him because he can see through that straight off the bat.
At lunch-time Margaret opts to run out to the Deli; she takes it as a sort of challenge. Rick and I don’t go out as a rule. When she returns we divide up the spoils---pastrami on rye, a deep pan pizza and a couple of BLTs. There’s a strange smell in the switchroom which owes nothing to the food. It is clear that Margaret has stepped in something in the street. Again. The dog isn’t well trained enough to guide her around vomit or other messes; maybe it would be asking too much of his nature.
“Shoes, Margaret!” the supervisor calls out shrilly. “Quickly.”
Rick and I help Margaret off with her shoes and put them outside the door. I can sense Rick’s nausea rising, though of course he doesn’t blame Margaret.
“Bitch”, he mutters in my ear so no one else can hear. He means the supervisor. She has all her faculties and that’s why she’s the boss. She calls Maintenance to do something about the residual smell but we all know they won’t come. The switchroom has no clout.
The supervisor never liked us much and was afraid of us at the start. I remember the first day Rick and I arrived on the job, she turned to greet us. Her outstretched hand flew instead to her mouth and she fled to the bathroom. Later, we heard her mumbling, “First, minorities, then the blind....now this....” Then for a little while she was in awe of us, probably because we hold a world record. Americans are impressed by that sort of thing. But eventually the shock and wonderment wore off, to be replaced by a kind of careful hostility---much the same as the guide dog’s reaction.
Rick can’t even look at the pizza and, to tell the truth, I can only nibble at it. When we came to the States first he couldn’t stand anchovies. They reminded him of the little khaki-coloured fish we used to catch in the harbour between Kowloon and Hong Kong with its floating weeds and sampans discharging waste into the crowded channel.
Most of the pizza finally goes in the bin and we face back to the switchboard over which someone has pasted a cartoon of a former Secretary of State on his knees, praying for ‘peace at any cost’. We chirrup our way through an afternoon of crossed lines and bad connections. The supervisor sprays air freshener around herself from time to time but it only makes the smell more sickly. Rick’s movements are slow; he’s not pulling his weight. Several times I have to cover for him.
“What’s up?” I ask him when the others have left.
“Everything.”
I knew what he meant---how could I not--- ? but felt obliged to make a point,
“We’ve been getting along for thirty-three years.” I could have added that most people were superficial and that there was no need to be hurt by condescension. But he would have second-guessed me on that. Sometimes with Rick the redundancy of words could be infuriating.
He made no response and a chill went through me. He can’t keep his feelings to himself. Nor, of course, can I.
He remained quiet on the metro journey home. As usual we were jam-packed against the sliding doors, so no one gave us a second glance.