When I Lose My Eyes (Part 2)

When I Lose My Eyes – Saturday Looks Good to Me (Part 2) (listen in new tab)
[editor's note: works best if you start mid way through the track, at approximately 3min20sec]

Maura’s head is cupped in her hands, held up by her arms, propped up on elbows, supported by a scratched and worn desk. Her eyelids are heavy as she casually eyes her classroom. She’s taught at this ESL school for years and could do it in her sleep.

Her afternoon students are all teenagers, all Koreans. She surveys the fifteen dark-haired heads crammed into books. It’s quiet reading. Not a good use of their time, but it passes hers. She’s tired right now, but that doesn’t bother her.

Everything drifts to black for a moment. She catches herself as her arms buckle, and her head starts to freefall. She looks around the room. No one saw that.

Sitting tall in her chair, she breathes deeply. It’s 1:00. The clocks tick, incessant and teasing. Her mind is a transcript of the late night calls. She wants to make sure she didn’t miss anything.

She can’t deny she’s excited. But, he's has only been trouble so far. Trouble seems to find her. She tries to fold those doubts into the smallest possible square. They bloom out again, creased and familiar.

On the other hand… she runs out of hands.

She casually pulls her phone out of her purse. It vibrates quietly in her palm when she turns it on. She stares at the little screen for a moment, stands. Her chair scratches loudly along the cheap linoleum. All fifteen heads look up.

“I have to…umm… go to the washroom. Innsook, can you lead the class in conversation.”

Innsook looks like she just woke up. “Yes, Miss. About?”

Maura: “I don’t know. Talk about what you’re doing tonight.” She exits the class, palming her phone so no one sees her leave with it. Dials as she walks down the empty hall.

At the library. K leans forward on the circulation desk. He thinks for a moment about bolting over it, making a run for the door.

The library has been busy today. A lot of people, worried about the strike, are trying to get all the books they can. K dutifully reminds them that the library will still be open limited hours if the strike happens. Non-union contract workers like him are going nowhere. But, he leaves out that last part.

It’s a little after one and there is a lull. A phone rings. He grabs at his pant pocket where his cell is. He sighs. It’s the desk phone. Picking up the receiver, he prepares his standard pre-strike message for its hundredth performance.

K: “Hello, Toronto Public Library. Neighbourhood Branch.”

G.T.: “K? Sweet, and on the first try. What’s up?”

K: “Not much. It’s busy here.”

G.T. leans back in his chair. He’s surrounded by his cubicle. Beyond the semi-permanent walls, stretched out in tedium, lies the ringing and mumbling sales department of Percy, Bors, and Galahad Marketing Inc.

G.T. keeps the fuzzy grey walls barren, except for a few family photos and two rock concert posters; their corners are tattered from the staples that once held them to telephone poles.

G.T.: “Man its slow here. I’m at quota for the month. Gonna ride that wave for the week. Did you talk to Claire? I haven’t been to Caxton’s in forever. They have the best salmon whatever it is. Do you know what she’s celebrating?”

As G.T. talks, K sees Candice leave her office. He knows that she’s coming to talk to him. Her mouth is a line; her eyes cut a swath across his face.

K pretends to look something up on the computer. “Sir, let me check to make sure we have it in. There is a lot of demand for that book.”

G.T.: “What? Is Candice there? Tell her we should get together. Tell her that I want to have her hard, man.”

K’s mouth tightens. His throat chokes down the laugh. His eyes bulge a little.

Candice: “K? Do you have a moment?”

With his free hand, he points to the receiver he holds against his ear. “Yeah, we have it in.”

Candice crosses her arms. Her eyes flare. K reconsiders.

K: “One moment please, sir.” He holds the receiver against his chest. “Yeah?”

Candice: “Can you come and see me around three? We need to have a short talk.”

K: “Yeah, sure. Three. Sorry about that, sir. What is your card number? I can put it on hold for you.” Candice goes back to her office.

G.T.: “What was that about?”

K: “Candice is gunning for me.”

The afternoon picks up, becomes an ellipsis. K recites the strike hours notice, over and over. One woman argues with him over borrowing limits.

Three o’clock comes quickly. K pulls up a chair. Candice's hands are folded neatly on her desk. Studying her face, he can see how the stress is weathering her. There are new lines.

K is prepared for her speech about professionalism. About how she needs him with the strike coming. About how library work is about more than showing up. About how the strike will be an opportunity to show that commitment. About how he needs to show more commitment to the library if he wants his contract renewed.

It drones into senselessness. Her mouth bristles with anxiety, trenchant with the languid fear she brings to middle management.

As she talks, K’s cell vibrates. Ignoring her, K slides the phone out of his pocket, casually looks at it. It’s a text from Maura.

Candice: “K? Mr. Dean? Are you listening? This is not the time to be checking your phone. This is exactly what–”

K looks up. His face had been firm, cavalier and defiant. Now it is slackened. The change stays her. “K?”

K: “Jenny died.”