If you're following from the previous post, you may be aware that I'm attempting to release a creative project on this website every month. I'm still working on Learned Helpfulness Plays Chess, a whimsical chess video game written in C (as of the time of this writing, I did something stupid with my game-to-console-interface adapter, and I'm rewriting that as I start on actual integration). In lieu of that, I'm writing a short blogpost - I didn't originally intend for this website to be just blogposts, but hey, it's better than nothing!
One behavior I picked up from my father is the tendency to read while walking. My dad will have a book, or a stack of articles, or a magazine, wherever he goes; whether that be the grocery store, the barbershop, or the hospital waiting room. For whatever reason, this rubbed off on me, and I find that I get my best reading done when I'm walking around outside. Every once in a while this will present a minor problem like hitting my head on a tree branch or getting clowned on by 60-year-old men on the street for being performative, but nevertheless, I perservere. That is, until recently, when this genetically-heritable habit got me in trouble with the disabled-academic law.
I was wandering through downtown into a yet-unexplored quiet neighborhood on a beautiful sunny afternoon, attempting to start some impenetrable Russian piece, when I couldn't help but turn my attention away from the task at hand and notice that the architecture around me had turned rather ornate and Victorian. I'm a real sucker for things ornate and Victorian, and I looked around, trying to figure out where I had gotten myself into and why it was so lovely, and it wasn't long before I saw the (very large-print) sign "Colorado School for the Blind."
"Isn't that a bit of a waste?" I thought to myself.
I perambulate the campus a bit more, although being a big fan of rules and regulations, I take care not to frolic in their beautifully maintained lawn marked "No Trespassing." Eventually, I decide to get back to the Russians, since I needed something to bring me down.
Unfortunately, I get brought down a fair bit more than I planned, tripped by an unexpected 1-inch change in sidewalk elevation, emitting a loud involuntary expletive upon my descent. I was never even particularly good at standing, much less walking, and my habit of distracting myself in the world of prose didn't help. I shamefacedly pick myself up and dust myself off, and I don't make it more than a few yards before I hear a shout.
"You, there! Stop! Get back here!"
I swivel around to face the commotion.
"Actually, nevermind, stay right there! I'm coming over!"
It becomes clear that I am the cause for commotion. A burly uniformed Goliath bearing the emblem "C.S.f.t.B. Security" comes up to me and grabs me by the arm in a surprisingly gentle and sympathetic fashion.
"You're really going to get hurt if you're wandering out here like this. C'mon, we're going to the Headmaster."
"What do you mean? I just tripped, that's all. Who are you, anyway?"
"You sick or something? Maybe that's how you ended up out here. I thought you were a runner."
I certainly didn't think I was dressed for running. "I'm just out here reading, that's all. I really should get going."
"Reading, that's something else. Haven't heard that one before. Next time put the book right-side-up."
I look at the miserable volume in my non-detained arm and realize the giant's critique was entirely valid. It is at this moment that I also realize I am walking outside the School for the Blind, wearing sunglasses, falling over 1-inch changes in elevation, and I come to gain a horrified understanding of my situation.
"B-but - I tripped - you know, I like to read while walking - something about my fa-"
My protests are ineffective, and I am soon led through a spacious academic hallway, at the end of which presumably lies this ominous Headmaster. I was slightly reassured to note that the interior was marginally less visually pleasing than the exterior; and really it makes sense that the exterior design of the C.S.f.t.B. would be prettier than the interior D.o.t.C.S.f.t.B. since the E.D.o.t.C.S.f.t.B. would be seen by the sighted but the vast majority of consumers of the I.D.o.t.C.S.f.t.B. would not be so privileged. These small consolations gave me some hope that the Headmaster would be a rational actor who would understand that this was all just a big misunderstanding.
The office of the Headmaster was remarkably cluttered compared to the prim-and-proper aesthetic I had seen thus far. Qing Dynasty portraits hung next to pointillist landscapes (with the largest points I'd ever seen); a novelty Denver Broncos teddy bear lay beneath an intimidating taxidermied grizzly wearing a Cubs jersey. There were a number of record players, all playing at once, as if the Headmaster put one on, forgot about it, and put another one on 10 minutes later, until there was a cacaphony of competing melodies, which battled with each other for audiospatial territory, so that at one end of the room Vivaldi's Spring seemed to be winning the offensive while on the other the victorious army was Drake's Headlines.
Goliath escorted me to the Headmaster, a short, sophisticated looking older gentleman in pince-nez sunglasses and Trostkyesque facial hair. "Sir, I found this student wandering off of the premises. Can't quite tell if he's a runner or just a little whack in the head, but I thought I'd let you handle it."
"Huh? Very good - I'll take care of it. Thank you, David."
I did my best to stifle a laugh at the irony of Goliath's real name, knowing that any appearance of insolence would only damage my case further. My best wasn't very good, but it appeared not to phase the Headmaster.
"So! Running away. Getting a lot of those lately. What's your name, son?"
"Jack."
"What's that?"
"Jack," I bleat slightly louder, beginning to ascertain that the Headmaster's hearing might not be so good.
"You're going to have to speak up a little, son."
"Jack!" I assert emphatically, before finding the correct tone-and-volume combination that is polite yet accomodating to the Headmaster's limitations. "Wait a minute, let's stop for a second, I wasn't running away. I'm not even a student, I'm way too old."
"You're never too old to be learning, Jack. Now why would David bring you in here if you weren't a student?"
"I don't know. Well, I do. I was walking around, reading this book, when I happened to trip and fall, which happens to the best of us."
"Indeed it does."
"It does indeed. Anyway, I tripped and fell, and I was also wearing my sunglasses because it's so bright out today, and I think David mistook me for a student. To his credit, he accosted me quite kindly."
"That's why he's the best. Listen, Jack, we've had an unbecoming increase in students trying to escape as of late. Something rebellious in the air, I suppose. Anyway, here's an easy way to get to the bottom of this. Why don't you tell me what that book you're reading is about?"
My heart sinks to the bottom of my chest, on account of the fact that I have no earthly idea what that book I'm reading is about. Thankfully, after the first devastating minute of silence, the ever-thoughtful Headmaster proposes an alternative plan.
"Well, Jack, maybe that won't work, but how about this - why don't you just read a page from the book to me?"
This I can absolutely do - reading aloud off of a page is one of my sharpest skills - and despite the octosyllabic proper nouns I manage to sprint through the first page with elegance and alacrity. Something about two men on a train, one of whom is naive yet kind-hearted and ever so sickly and the other world-wise and cruel-hearted and also quite sickly, and the cruel-hearted man really really despises the kind-hearted man, and each character has about fifteen different names so it's entirely possible that the cruel-hearted man was in fact the kind-hearted man (if not in the literal sense at least in the allegorical sense) but thankfully no literary analysis was required by my examiner so this was all, as it were, moot.
"Well, Jack - that's good enough for me - your sight's up there with the best of them! I've got to say, this is all quite inspiring for someone in your developmental circumstances!"
I agreed that I was quite inspiring, and soon after I was walking out a free man, not even arm-in-arm with David (although I was in such a good mood I wouldn't have even minded). On our way out, however, a mousy young boy ran up to me.
"Sir, sir! You've gotta get me out of here! You don't understand the awful things they do here!"
"What do you mean, son?" I said, easily influenced.
"They make us go through this wretched curriculum - Euclid's Elements and Plato's Republic - it's atrocious! We want hyperbolic geometry and Albert Camus, but the faculty won't listen!"
For a moment, I wistfully reminisced over my own youthful run-ups against authority, and I smiled at the lad.
"That's school, kid. Blink, and you'll miss it. Well-" I attempted to correct my mistake, but was interrupted by the fourth-period bell, and the Mouse's friend pulled him along to a chalkboard-less classroom. You'll miss it, indeed.