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The Spectator
by
Harry Buschman
At exactly
6:30 the alarm lever tripped the window blind and
light flooded into Frank Whistler’s bedroom. He
woke with a start -- fully alert, as always, then
he checked the digital clock on the night stand. He
looked around the room to see if everything was in
its proper place. It was -- but you never know.
He threw the covers back carefully and eased his
way out of bed. His senses were acute -- he could
feel the texture of the wool carpet under the soles
of his bare feet, the tightness of the waist cord
of his pajamas and the coolness of the air on his
face as he moved towards the window. The light
outside was bright and it blinded him. He could
smell the grass in the village park through the
closed window. Except for two dogs running across
the baseball diamond, the park was deserted.
He could hear nothing. Frank Whistler was
profoundly deaf and had been since birth. To
compensate for his deafness, his other senses had
developed to an extraordinary degree. He
could feel vibrations under his feet, and if he
placed the palm of his hand on the window he could
feel vibrations from outside as well. Those under
his feet came from the Whittaker family on the
first floor, and the rapid pulsing at the window
was from the early morning traffic on I-95.
Chessie, his calico cat, trotted in and demanded
attention by doing figure eights between his feet.
Frank picked her up and marveled at her flexibility
-- it was as though she had no bones. "You’re
vibrating too, Chessie. Does that mean you’re
purring?" He held her so she could look out the
window. To Chessie the park was a vast ocean of
grass, a plain as broad as the Serengeti, where
mice might be found, but also where wild and
vicious dogs lay in wait for house cats. To Frank
it was a place to experience the lives of others.
The park was their world, the world outside. Life
was out there. Danger! .... an existence that both
man and cat chose to keep at arm’s length.
"Shall we begin the day, Chessie?" He slicked her
whiskers back and carried her into the bathroom. At
the first sound of running water, Chessie trotted
back to her bed in the kitchen. She would have none
of this ritual of washing and shaving that Frank
found so important, no -- she would wait for
breakfast to be served. On the wall next to her bed
was a mirror Frank set up for her. She would sit in
front of it when she was alone and marvel at the
beautiful cat in the glass. A cat who mirrored
every move she made -- a cat who even walked out of
the glass when she did. She looked quickly in the
mirror before climbing back into bed. The cat was
there again -- climbing into its own bed. It was
not really a cat .... Chessie knew that. When she
touched noses with it, there was the touch of glass
-- no touch of cat -- no sound or smell of cat. It
was one of those marvelous inventions that made
humans worth living with, like food and drink that
came from cans and boxes, and a warm
windowsill to sit on and look out at the park.
After his shower and shave, Frank slipped on a
terry robe and walked to the kitchen. Chessie
roused herself and stepped from her bed in slow
motion, she pointed the tip of her tail to
the ceiling as though it was a cavalryman’s lance.
Frank turned on the television set and pulled the
orange juice container out of the refrigerator. A
young blond in red materialized on the television
screen -- her brows were knitted in compassion and
concern while pictures in the background revealed
wide eyed and bloated black children who stared
dumbly at the cameraman. Reading the woman’s lips,
he thought he caught the word SO-MAL-EE-YA. "There
are losers and there are winners," he thought as he
thumbed the remote. A twister had passed through a
trailer park in the Florida panhandle and stunned
senior citizens were picking their way through the
scattered debris.
"And you, Chessie, are a winner. Did you know
that?" Frank poured some milk in a small bowl and
put it down carefully by the side of the
refrigerator. Chessie minced over unhurriedly and
settled herself into a shapeless ball of fur at the
milk bowl. As she drank she blinked slowly,
rhythmically, as though beating time to a
metronome.
"It’s Saturday, Chessie. You know what Saturday is,
don’t you?" Frank settled on a channel displaying a
woman on a treadmill. She had soccer player’s legs
and a bronzed torso of sinew and bone. "A Walkyrie,
Chessie -- a gladiator. Many years ago women like
that were bred to become mothers of the Third
Reich." Chessie’s eyes were fixed on the level of
milk in the bowl. She decided to leave the milk at
that level and finish it later. She hadn’t listened
to a word Frank said, it was all gibberish to her.
Humans were all alike. They jabbered for no
apparent reason, together or alone -- like dogs who
seem to delight in making noise. Chessie was aware
of a difference in Frank’s gibberish however, more
of a one-note monotone than that of other humans.
It was appealing -- soothing. It was one of his
attractions, Chessie thought -- that and the
mirror.
It was a Saturday, a sunny Saturday, and Frank
decided to run in the park after breakfast. "You
can watch me from the window," he told Chessie as
he laced up his Nikes.
Running was a luxury he saved for Saturdays. He
would run his nine to five Monday to Friday job
with Syntec out of his system. The steady pounding
of his heels on the cinder track around the
football field, even though it was soundless to
him, would purge his body and mind. He would be
breathless after four laps, maybe sweaty if the
weather was as warm as it promised to be this
Saturday. He would then walk to the kiosk on the
corner and buy the morning paper to hide behind,
then he’d find an empty bench to continue his study
of the human condition.
Frank was an accomplished lip-reader. It was the
only form of communication open to him and a
lifetime of deafness had sharpened his ability.
Phrases and body language were as important to him
as the formation of the speaker’s mouth. Very
little went on at the office that got by him and no
one dared whisper a secret if Frank Whistler was in
the room.
As a child he thought his ability to read lips
would make him omnipotent, untouched by events and
yet aware of their passing. He imagined himself to
be a king. He dreamed of heavy casks of precious
jewels, safe behind high castle walls and
surrounded by fearless knights in impenetrable
armor, all of whom would defend him to the death
from dangers outside. The thought persisted as he
grew, and even today, at the age of 37, he imagined
himself to be invincible and detached from the
dangers that ordinary people -- people with hearing
-- faced every day.
The running went well, he pulled up after the third
lap and bent over with both hands on his knees. His
breathing came easily and he quickly recovered his
wind. He straightened up, windmilled his arms to
stay loose and jogged over to the kiosk. The Times
would do nicely -- a full size newspaper. He
glanced quickly at the headlines, which seemed to
be a repeat of yesterday’s, and found an empty
bench on the paved path to the baseball diamond.
Diagonally across the path, fifty feet from the
bench on which he sat, was another bench, and
holding the Times open at eye level he could read
the lips of couples sitting there. It was a
pleasant game he played on weekends --
eavesdropping -- and it was as close as he wished
to come to life’s
realities. He learned the troubles of young couples
-- unwanted pregnancies, confessions of
adultery, the loss of livelihood. Young people’s
problems were fascinating, and after they got
up and left, Frank often wondered what became of
them. How could they get themselves into so much
trouble? Caring for a cat like Chessie was about as
much as he could handle.
Women were the easiest to read. They talked
incessantly. Their body language was expressive and
often conveyed more than their words did. Men, on
the other hand, concealed much of what they really
meant to say behind a stiffness and a reluctance to
display their true feelings. Therefore he was
disappointed to see two men approach the bench and
sit down across from him.
Furthermore
they spoke in a language with which he was not
familiar. He could read people speaking in
Italian and French, but these two men spoke in a
language foreign to him. He was about to fold his
paper and leave when one of them, the older of the
two, suddenly broke into English.
"It is good, Tariq to hear Farsi again. But we must
speak English -- you understand? We stand out from
the crowd when we speak our own tongue." He was a
dark heavily eyebrowed man whose eyes shifted
nervously as he spoke. Some of his words were lost
to Frank when he turned his head. At times he would
look directly at Frank reading his newspaper, but
was apparently satisfied that he could not be
overheard.
"But it’s been so long. How long must we wait,
Salman? Last night I catch myself dreaming in this
cursed English -- I cannot go on much longer,
Salman."
"It should not be long -- have patience .... you
are secure in your job at the mall?"
"Yes, but they are asking when I go on holiday. I
have to give them a date."
"Tell them you must coordinate with .... " The man
called Salman looked behind him, then covered his
mouth and whispered into Tariq’s ear. He turned
again and looked almost directly at Frank, who
still held the top of the newspaper level with his
eyes. Obviously convinced that his words would
never be heard at that distance, he leaned back and
Frank distinctly read his lips as he said. "It will
be the last Saturday before the children go back to
school, Tariq. The Mall will crawl with people --
can you think of a better time?"
Frank suddenly realized his hands were cold as ice.
His legs trembled, there was a sudden chill in the
air and he was filled with dread as though
something dreadful was about to happen -- something
he couldn’t prevent. He didn’t want to hear what he
had already heard, and he closed his eyes to keep
from hearing any more. When he opened them again
the men were walking away.
He stood
uncertainly wondering if he should follow them.
Instead, he turned and walked unsteadily back to
his apartment.
What could he do -- a deaf man on the outside of
life looking in? He was too used to being a
spectator, like a fan at a football game. He had no
control over the game and only a passing interest
in its outcome. There are winners and losers. "Win
some, lose some." What real changes in his life
could be expected either way .... "You’re not a
player, Frank, you’re a spectator."
But then --
whatever was going to happen would happen on the
last Saturday of school vacation. As he
climbed the stairs to his apartment the prospect of
a crowded mall stopped him at his door with
his latch key in his hand. The children. The
mothers. Was he satisfied to be a spectator, or did
he want to be part of the game too -- a player for
the first time.
He looked at Chessie sunning herself on the
windowsill. He started for the television set and
stopped before turning it on. "What’s the sense in
it," he wondered? A look at the world from the
outside, as though he were some strange
disinterested spectator from another world curious
enough to check it out. He looked out at the park
.... the men were gone .... where, he wondered. For
the first time in his life a sensation of caring
and participation flowed through him, a sense that
there is in this world a wonderful significance in
being alive -- a responsibility if you will, that
prevents each of us from living life and giving
nothing in return. There was only one thing to do.
"Chessie, come here. I’m going to feed you; yes, a
whole can of tuna. Eat slowly. Save some for later.
I’m going to be gone for a while." It was all very
mysterious to Chessie, unusual too. This was the
prime time of day, quality time -- ordinarily he
would take her in his lap and gibber on and on
while she purred. She had come to expect it and
now, all of a sudden, there was something more
important for him to do. She jumped up on the
windowsill just in time to see him walking quickly
down the street. Where on earth could he be going?
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