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“Georgia.”
“Yes, Damon. I’ll come in and redo the password when Trent gets here.”
“I’m going to need some extra help.”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to need you to give me the timing for the vision.”
What did he mean? He’d be able to see the vision on the monitor. Except he couldn’t see it well before. He held on to surfaces, he didn’t make direct eye contact, and he needed twenty-four point type. He didn’t take the USB when she offered it. He had to find that table before he put the mug down. Oh my God. Damon wasn’t clumsy, he didn’t have a migraine, he wasn’t sick.
Trent came in. He wore an expression that suggested he’d discovered the green men who worked in the bakery across the street had been systematically poisoning his daily bread. She toggled the intercom off and they stared at each other in a wild moment of mutual recognition.
5: Flying Blind
The silence from the control booth was profound. Jesus, they didn’t know. Man, he should’ve made sure they did, but he figured Ben would’ve said something and this job was such a sleepwalk he’d never thought it’d be an issue. But something was wrong, and it wasn’t the flu and it wasn’t jet lag, or exhaustion. He’d really struggled at the gym with the new gear, and it wasn’t because the control panel was a flat surface; he’d been useless on the pool table, he’d nearly fallen off the stage, and now he couldn’t see images on a decent-sized monitor clearly enough to narrate. Sure it wasn’t the big screen he was used to, but this wasn’t a complicated narration.
He wasn’t just exhausted. He’d lost more vision. A great deal more. And there wasn’t that much left to lose. But the shadows were filmier, the shapes less distinct and his close vision was beyond blurred.
He dropped his face into his hands. He’d known it and he’d been denying it; his old, don’t get too far ahead of yourself strategy, the one that prevented him being too disappointed and kept him focused on how bloody lucky he was. But the future was suddenly a little narrower in definition, a lot dimmer.
He looked towards the booth and waved a hand to make sure they were listening. “Two pilots walk
up the aisle of an aircraft. Both are wearing dark glasses, the man has a guide dog, the woman a white cane.
“Damon, um.”
That was Trent. Poor bugger. No wonder he didn’t know what to say. Damon went on. “Nervous laughter spreads through the cabin, but they enter the cockpit and the engines start up. The passengers glance around; searching for a sign this is a practical joke. Maybe they’re being punked, maybe there are cameras. When the plane starts to taxi, they begin pressing their call signs and shouting, but the attendants ignore them. The plane moves faster and faster down the runway and the people sitting in the window seats realise they’re headed straight for the water. They scream, and soon all the passengers are screaming and praying.”
He made an aeroplane out of one hand and flew it off the edge of the lectern. “At that moment, the plane lifts smoothly into the air.” There was no sound from the control booth. It’d be ironic if Trent and Georgia had picked now for a bathroom break.
“The passengers relax and laugh a little sheepishly, the cabin service starts, and they retreat into their magazines and books, secure in the knowledge the plane is in good hands.” He dropped his hand. “Are you guys with me?”
“Yeah, um.” Trent again, sounding embarrassed still.
“Meanwhile, in the cockpit, one of the blind pilots turns to the other and says, ‘You know, Jane, one of these days, they’re gonna scream too late and we’re all gonna die.’”
Not a sound.
He’d been going for any chord of uneasy laughter.
“I thought you guys knew. I’m sorry to throw you for such a loop.” The door opened and he turned towards it. Two shapes, Trent and Georgia. “Hi, don’t feel bad. This is my fault. I should’ve made sure you knew.”
“It’s not in your profile,” said Trent. “We checked it when we knew Pinetti hired you.”
“You’re right. I’ve never needed it to be. I’ve got enough close vision with the right lighting to read my big print, and I use digital audio to memorise short copy. It’s my distance vision that’s shot and I generally don’t need that to work. But I do owe you an apology. I’m having a bad day. I would normally have gotten through this no problem and you’d have never needed to be any the wiser.”
More silence constructed from awkward, then a soft hiccup of laughter from Georgia.
“Good joke,” she said.
“It is one of my better ones. I often tell it as Peter Graves, Captain Oveur from Airplane—Flying High, but I thought that might be too much, under the circumstances. He gave them a line from the movie in his Peter Graves voice and Georgia laughed with less self-consciousness, Trent going with her too boisterously.
Damon breathed deeper. He hated sucker-punching them almost more than he detested fucking up in front of them.
“What kind of a bad day are you having?” Georgia said. “Can we get you anything?” She’d asked that before, sweet, but she was thinking headache tablets or a magnifying glass. He needed Lina with her white coat professionalism and her no-nonsense verdict. He needed to know what the prognosis was and plan to deal with it.
God, he knew the answers to both those questions already. He’d held on to his residual vision far longer than Lina and her team of consulting ophthalmologists had thought possible given his condition, but the day when legally blind took on a darkly practical meaning was closer now than it’d ever been. He shook his head, trying to get focused on what he needed right now, and it wasn’t this job he was screwing up.
