Jacky next takes my elbow and turns my torso this way and that; soon he has me positioned in a fighter’s stance. I’d taken my fair share of self-defense classes at the academy―and a handful of mandatory follow-up classes―to know what he’s doing…and what to do with my body. I help him out by raising my hands and balling my fists, one in front of the other. Back in the day, I used to be able to hold my own.

  So, I stand there with my hips turned sideways, one leg in front of the other, my right arm cocked back, my left hand up for jabs and defense. It’s a good stance, and had I been able to see, I could probably fight my way out of just about anything. As it stands—or as I stand—I’m still a sitting duck.

  Jacky fine-tunes my hands, then reaches down and positions my feet. I think it’s cute that he thinks he can help me. Whoever heard of teaching a blind man to box? No, I never had either, but my brother had been adamant and so far, Jacky is taking his job seriously.

  When he’s done positioning my feet, he next takes my left arm and extends it out, mimicking a punch. He does it twice more, then pats my shoulder. He wants me to do the same.

  And so I do, throwing a punch blindly at about a quarter speed, hoping like hell the little man isn’t directly in front of me. He’s not. He’s standing next to my side. He pats my shoulder again, and so I throw another punch, then another and another, until he reaches out and takes hold of my bicep, stopping me.

  He shows me some other punches, jabs and upper cuts and hooks. He has me practice each a number of times before moving on to the next. I am getting winded, but, dammit, I’m having a great time, too. This is already more exercise than I have done in some time.

  We take a short break. By break, I just stand there, breathing hard. I have no clue what he’s doing. Maybe texting, but probably petting Betsie.

  A few minutes later, he positions me again, but this time, he takes my fists and directs them into his. Except, I notice, he’s wearing punching mitts. I nod. I get it, I think. He backs away and I aim a straight punch where I think his mitted hands are, and miss completely.

  I stumble, nearly fall. A strong hand keeps me up. I feel more foolish than I have in a long time.

  But the old man will have none of it. My wrists are seized quickly, so fast that Betsie is startled and I feel her land heavily on the wooden floor. I also sense she is barking up a storm. He releases my wrists—smart man—I kneel down and she comes to me. Yes, she’s barking still, panting, getting all worked up. She doesn’t like the seizing part. She’d already probably been on edge watching me air box, wondering what the hell was happening. The seizing of my wrists had pushed her over her doggie edge.

  I calm her, clucking with my tongue as I sometimes do with her, patting her head. I lead her back to the couch and have her jump up. I motion with my finger for her to stay…then think better of it.

  I lead her, instead, into my bedroom and pat her on the head again and silently tell her she’s doing a good job, mouthing the words, then shut the door. My loyal dog just won’t understand the various humiliating exercises that I suspect I will be enduring.

  I come back automatically, having memorized my apartment’s layout even before I went blind. Soon, I am back in the middle of the living room and I feel Jacky take my wrists again and lift them. He once again positions my body in a classic fighter’s pose. Then directs my wrists to his punching mitts. Then releases my hands again.

  This time, I strike immediately, seeing his mitted hands in my mind’s eye. I miss completely. I wonder if he’s moving his hands, but I doubt it. It’s me, not him. My eye-hand coordination is nonexistent. Yes, I can memorize where some things are, over time. I can remember where I set my coffee on a table, or where my fork is on my plate. But this is a new movement. A movement I have not done in quite a long time, if ever. My self-defense classes did not consist of punching mitts. Especially mitts being held up by a man who was, for all intents and purposes, probably a little shaky himself.

  Punching anything—let alone hovering mitts—isn’t a part of my reality. These days, moving carefully from one room to the next, feeling my way with my walking stick and guide…yes, these are my new reality.

  I swing again and again, and miss each time. In frustration, I nearly drop my hands again. But I don’t. In my mind’s eye, I can almost see the little man willing my hand’s up. I take in a lot of air through my tracheal tube, air that’s filtered and humidified to prevent irritation of my airway.

  Jacky again takes hold of my wrists, steadies them, directs them into his mitted hands, and he keeps doing this, over and over, until I establish a clear pattern, muscle memory. He does this patiently. I think. Calmly. I think.

  Finally, he releases my wrists and I don’t wait around. I snap off an immediate straight right, and connect with the edge of the mitt. I stumble forward a little, but I am elated. It is a good thing Betsie is in the other room. She might have hurled herself at the little boxer at this point. It is only the edge of the mitt, but I feel ecstatic. I hit something, dammit. From out of the darkness, I’ve made a connection, and it feels wonderful.

  I gather myself and see again in my mind’s eye where his hands should be and fire off another punch, this one harder and more confident. If I miss, I am going to lose my balance again. But I don’t miss. Quite the opposite, in fact, I hit the mitt squarely in the middle. And I hit it hard.

  My next punch connects, too. My third misses entirely. I stumble and regroup and take some more air, and as I did so, the little trainer grabs my wrists and lifts them again. I know that boxers need to keep their fists up, to protect their faces, and to launch their own counterattacks. Jacky isn’t letting me forget it, or letting me slide.

  I gather myself and deliver another ten punches, seven of which hit their target flush. I am excited. There’s a bounce to my step. Even when I miss, I am able to mostly keep my balance.

  We next work on delivering jabs, which are quick, short blows launched with the leading hand. In my case, my left hand, my weaker hand. The right hand is reserved for delivering the knockout blows, so to speak.

  Jabs do a lot of damage. They keep your opponent off-balance, and, if delivered correctly, they can even break noses. I wasn’t looking to break anyone’s nose. I wasn’t entirely sure why I was learning boxing to begin with.

  But, by the time Jacky and I are done with our first session, I can feel myself smiling bigger than I have done in a long time.

  At my table with the plastic letters, Jacky spells out: “Good work. But keep your hands up.”

  On my notepad, as I wipe sweat from the tip of my nose with my sleeve, I write: “Can I ask how old you are?”

  He spells out: “No. Next week, we practice with gloves.”

  “Oh, goody,” I write.

  He spells out: “Boxers don’t say goody.”

  “I’m not a boxer.”

  “You are now,” he spells.

  And with that, he pats me on the shoulder and I feel the front door opening and closing, the vibrations of which travel up through the wooden floor and into my whole being.

  Chapter Eleven

  Betsie is curled up at the end of my bed.

  It is near midnight, according to my super cool braille watch with its protective cover and sturdy hands. Midnight doesn’t look much different than midday. Early on, I had trouble regulating my sleep patterns. When it’s dark 24/7, the body is fooled and sleep cycles got to hell. It’s called non-24-hour sleep-wake syndrome, and in those early days, I slept often. I dozed off throughout the day. And when I awoke, I had no clue how long I had slept or what time of day it was and how to control my sleeping.

  Thanks to some handy prescription drugs, I had gotten control over the non-24 hour syndrome. And once my sleep pattern was re-established, I got off the drugs. Still, sometimes I find myself slipping back into it, losing track of the day, nodding off randomly. But nothing that’s beyond my control. In fact, one technique I use is to monitor the time constantly.

  Now, it is near midnight and I can’t sleep. But my lack of sleep isn’t because of a disrupted pattern. No, I am thinking of the missing people and I am thinking of my ex-girlfriend and I am thinking of Rachel and her small, soft hands. I am thinking of the way her fingers curled around mine—or inside of mine. The way they sometimes nestle in there, as she waits to translate the detective’s words. I am thinking that I don’t have much to offer a woman, if anything. I am thinking that I miss having someone in my life, someone who loves me, cares for me, and someone I can love in return. It’s been a long time.

  Too long.

  Now, as I lay on my bed, on my back, looking up at nothing but seeing so much in my mind’s eye, I ask myself if this is something I want. Do I even want a relationship? Wouldn’t I be the world’s biggest burden?

  I’d been alone for so long. My few friends are mostly gone. Only my brother visits weekly. An elderly woman, who lives down the hallway, visits sometimes, too. We sit at my kitchen table and she spells out a few questions with the plastic letters, and I answer them on my notepad. She never bothered to learn sign language, and I don’t blame her. The plastic letters are sufficient. She sometimes brings me cookies and often, she will give me a big hug before she leaves. And not just any hug. She holds me tight and sometimes rests her head on my chest and once, I think she was crying. She feels sorry for me, alone and blind and deaf and nonverbal, as far as she knows. Alone, she thinks, and forgotten.

  Long ago, back when I was in college, I flew out to visit some friends on the East Coast. While on the plane, I was having a hard time hearing what the flight attendant was saying to me. She was either a low talker or I just wasn’t paying enough attention. Embarrassed, I later told the passenger next to me, “I think I’m hard of hearing.” Except he heard me say, “I’m hard of hearing.”

  For the rest of the flight, he took control of the situation and made sure I was taken care of by the crew and explained things to me carefully. I was oddly…touched. I also didn’t want to tell him I could hear just fine. The situation had blown up out of my control and I didn’t want him to feel embarrassed or used or stupid or taken advantage of. Hell, it was easy enough to pretend I was hard of hearing, and his concern for me was heartwarming. How he had immediately taken on his role as benefactor. He took it seriously and with great pride. I also sensed his protectiveness over me. I also got a taste of what life might be like for the disabled.

  Now, I live like this daily, although there’s one difference. My disability is threefold. A hundredfold, truth be known. Also, I could not sense or see the satisfaction that some might be receiving in helping me. Or see their pity.

  Now, I often receive help from strangers, strangers I can never voice a thank you to, although I have silently mouthed such words many hundreds of times. I have also received many hundred, if not thousands, of gentle pats on my shoulders and back. Many people will also gently take my elbow and guide me up stairs. I have had others who have hugged me for no known reason. Not full body hugs, but a show of support, of love toward their fellow man, of understanding and compassion. These are all faceless strangers, for whom all I can do is smile, mouth a thank you, and hug them back. I hope it’s enough. I hope all those many strangers—and all the many people who have helped me—know and understand just how much I appreciate their love and attention and kindness and gentleness. Sometimes, I don’t feel I deserve their help. But their help, their touches and their hidden smiles, have all helped me get through the day, to get through this life of mine.

  Now, I think I am ready for more, maybe. And I can’t stop thinking of my ex-girlfriend…and I keep thinking about her as I finally slip into sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  I awake as I often do:

  Dreaming of my mother, who had passed nine years ago. I also awaken to my alarm vibrating under my pillow. I’d learned to place my cell phone under my pillow while it charges at night. One of the techniques to battle non-24 syndrome is to awaken with a set schedule, which I do every morning at 7:30 a.m.

  I turn over, yawn. Outside, the world is awakening, people are getting ready for work, cars are moving through the Los Angeles roadways. The sun is shining. The smog is thick. The women are beautiful. The men are dressed to the nines.

  In my bedroom, all is black. So black that sometimes I feel like I have fallen into a deep well that I can never, ever climb out of. To this day, I pray that I will awaken from this nightmare. So far, no luck, although I’m still holding out that this is the mother of all dreams.

  Speaking of which, my mother.

  I sit up and scratch Betsie behind her ears and see my mother in my dream again. She is holding my hand, sitting right here next to me on the edge of the bed, as she always does in my dreams. Yes, I dream of her often. In my dreams, she appears youngish, certainly younger than she had been when she died of congestive heart failure. If I had to guess, she is in her early forties and looking healthy and strong. But we never speak in my dreams. I wonder if it’s because I can’t speak in real life. I don’t know, but I can always see her and feel her, and she always holds my hand in both of hers. She’s smiling at me, and never once does she look upon me with sadness. Only with love. The love I feel from her is real, and I miss her when I awaken, as I do now. Mostly, I miss seeing her.

  I am not weeping on this morning. Still, it is a challenge for me to awaken from such beauty and love, only to find myself in complete darkness again. My dreams, I think, are my saving grace. In my dreams, I am whole. Sometimes not. Sometimes I am broken in my dreams. But mostly not. Mostly I am alive and well and experiencing the world with all my senses.

  On this morning, I awaken with, I suspect, a rare smile, and an even rarer excitement.

  Stupid, I think, as I find my way to the bathroom automatically, the path permanently seared into my memory, each step, each turn. I do, however, take care to line myself up in front of the toilet, to guarantee accuracy of stream. My brother tells me I must surely miss as often as I hit. Oh, well. I do my best.

  The coffee is waiting for me in the kitchen—the coffeemaker having been pre-programmed by my brother. I need only to scoop coffee in the dispenser each night, which I always do before I go to bed. My plastic mugs—everything in my house is plastic—are always near the sink, and I grab one now, rinse it, then fill it with coffee, which I drink black. Milk tends to produce extra mucus for me, which can be a problem, since I have to extract it out of the trachea hole in my throat.

  I take my coffee and work my way through the living room, to my patio, careful of the recently moved coffee table. My poor toes have taken much abuse in these past five years.

  I sit on my balcony, in the cool morning air, drinking and turning my face to the sun. Betsie uses a pee pad on the balcony, which I replace every few days. Sometimes, I walk her down to go pee in the morning. On this morning, though, I want to sit and think and feel and wonder and ask and pray. For the first time in a long time, I feel hope and promise and it is a good, good feeling.

  Before I get up and get dressed, I send Detective Hammer a text message, using my braille phone. I hope I get the message right. If not, he’ll puzzle it together. He’s clever like that. I text: “What’s the latest?”

  A minute later, my phone buzzes, spelling out the words in Morse code, which I string together automatically. “Going through some video feeds. I might have something for you later today. Stay tuned.”

  I write back: “Staying tuned is what I do best.”

  Believe it or not, the Detective sends back a winky face, which touches me for some reason.

  When my coffee is done, I scratch Betsie behind her ears and note a faint whiff of fresh feces. She had done her business. I give her a good-girl pat. I keep her bowl of high-quality, dry food filled throughout the day. She is free to eat whenever she wants.

  Back in my room, I feel my way through my closet, finding jeans and a bowling shirt that, I hoped, looks good on me. Most of my shirts are either white or black, anyway. Once dressed and brushed and groomed, I strap Betsie into her harness and we take the elevator downstairs.

  When the elevator touches down and I feel the whoosh of the doors opening, I step out into the small foyer and press the upper right app button on my phone.

  The Uber taxi service app.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Uber is a beautiful thing, especially for someone in my condition.

  Granted, I doubt there are too many people with my condition, but that is beside the point. With a tap of an app, I can summon a taxi anywhere, at any time. Uber isn’t a licensed taxi service. Instead, they employ drivers who use their own cars and GPS tracking. Via the app, it’s billed directly to my credit card. Months ago, my brother had set me up with them, coaching me how to use the app and summon a ride. He also set up my user profile to mention that I’m disabled and have a service dog. I’m sure some drivers pass on me—drivers, apparently, can pick or decline services—while others might be sympathetic to my plight. Although what I deal with on a daily basis seems a bit more than a plight. Maybe a plight with a capital “P.”

  Anyway, ten minutes later, I feel Betsie react to someone coming up to me. I suspect it is the Uber driver and I wave, while also giving Betsie the command to heel. Betsie, as always, immediately obeys.

  Have I mentioned that I love that dog?

  Next, I feel a hesitant hand guide me forward and shortly inside the backseat of a smallish car. I’m not a smallish man, but I make do. Betsie hops over my lap and sits on the seat next to me. How she manages to miss my crotch is always a miracle.

  When I’m fairly certain the driver is seated, I show him my notepad with the address already scribbled on it. Also included are my notes to please drop me off in front of the main entrance. He pats the back of my hand. He understands, and so, I sit back, and a moment later I feel the forward motion of the vehicle.

  And we’re off.