Colors: Yellow

It was a few days later.  I had successfully avoided being caught up in the antics of the woman whose name I didn’t even know.  It was another chill day.  The air was fresh with salt and the fishy smell of the sea.  I was getting done with work.  Yes, a blind man can work.  I worked in the library, as it was one of the few purposefully quiet places in town.

I can only handle so many sounds at once.  The bigger the crowds the louder the songs.  The bigger the crowds the more complex the songs are.  While there is the herd mentality where all of the songs are similar; each individual’s song is still pressed with their own needs and wants.  It’s hard to differentiate them after a while.

So I leave and roam the town early in the morning and late in the evening.  It’s quieter and I can think clearer.  Not many people are bothering me at this time, and those who do usually know that I am blind and try to avoid getting in my way.

Hence why I work in the library.  It’s quiet by nature, so when people are inside the songs are subdued.  Imagine putting on noise canceling headphones in the middle of a crowd.  There is still the undeniable murmur of people but the songs are at a volume where I can drown them out with my own thoughts.

The smell of old books and dust had always pleased me.  I am happiest when I can work and get things done.  Because let us face it, putting away books is quite simple once you get the hang of it.  I can’t go by numbers, obviously.  But I can go by the shape and smell and weight of the book.  I can tell which section the book belongs in by the cart it’s on.  Which means I can differentiate which book it is.  Some books I handle all the time.  Some I only get to touch once in a while.

During my down time, I like to wander the endless racks and trace my finger over the spines.  I can only imagine their names and their insides and their descriptions.  Sometimes I travel over familiar bindings.  They are like old lovers.  I know just where they open; the dog-eared pages where the most exciting words lay.  I know just how loved they are.  I know just what songs are emitted by them when they are read.

Books have their own songs to sing.  But they don’t sing them themselves.  Books play humans for their songs.  How different is the reader’s song after the book is done?  I take the difference between the two and that is the books song.  And that is far more interesting to myself than to some people.

Inside it smelled vaguely of salt and fishiness of the sea combined with vanilla and lavender.  The vanilla and lavender was particularly overwhelming.  One of my coworkers had lit the candle last night, and the scented smoke still hung in the air like a bad dream even late into the afternoon.

I can still hear her, even as she sat at the desk.  Jane’s song was upbeat.  She was humming a tune that she was listening to through her headphones.  Her foot tapped to the beat.  Even upon the carpet and even up a story from her I could hear it.

I traced my hand over the stacks, feeling the books with my forefinger.  Very few people were here.  Including myself and my coworker behind the desk, there was a young man typing away.  He didn’t speak or breathe often, which made me worry.  But the clickity-clack of his keys was clear to me.  He was focused on something, and as long as I heard his keys typing away I could rest easy.  Even if the typing sounds were slightly annoying.

The door opened below me.  I cocked my head to one side.  I could hear her speaking to the patron.  It was someone.  The song was familiar.  A disjointed solo played out against the upbeat rhythm of my coworker.  It was her.

I ignored the books in front of me.  Turning, I tapped against the carpet as I worked my way out of the racks.  If I could make my way to the employee only section of the library, then I would be safe from her nagging.

I made my way slowly to the stairs.  Below, I heard her moving once more.  She was like a bull in a china shop.  Her footsteps were heavy and purposeful.  The strides were long, and her speed was quick.  I didn’t dare to hurry.  I had to go my pace.  If I went too fast, I would run into the wall or a stack of shelves.  I had done plenty of those things when I was a child.  I wouldn’t have to make the same mistake as an adult if I didn’t have to.

I stopped at the top of the stairs, and made my way down each step.  There were eleven steps in total to the landing.  Then there were another twelve steps to the ground floor.  I felt each step, inching my foot out before I got to the edge.  I leaned on the railing and stepped down.  I brought my other foot out, and did the same thing.

I made it to the landing between floors when her footsteps came to the stairs.  She pounded up them then stopped.

“Hello!  I’ve found you.”

“So you have.”

“I’ve been wandering around the coffee shop for days now.  It was the nice woman behind the counter who told me that you worked here.”

“Karen.”  I sniffed the air.  The familiar scent of vanilla and lavender and the fish and the salt were all still there.  But the unmistakable smell of strawberries hung close to me now.  She had to be using it as a shampoo or as a perfume.

“Right, she’s such a nice woman.”  She came up the last few steps.  “I’m here to teach you about colors!”

“Not so loud.”

“Right.  Sh,” she shushed herself.  “I’m here to teach you about colors.”  She said softer.

“I’m working.”

“I can still teach you your colors.”

“I am a blind man.  How can you teach me colors?”

“I came up with a solution.”  I could hear the smile in her voice.  She was proud of herself, she was excited.

“What is that?”

“Colors all have an emotion attached to them.  If I teach you something that you already know, and associate that with that color, then you’ve learned your colors!”

“That’s…quite interesting, actually.”  I paused.  “So how would you do this exactly?”

“I, uh, haven’t gotten that far.”

“So you haven’t thought of anything.”

I could hear the creak in the stairs as her weight shifted.  Just what was she thinking about?  Her hand took mine.  Surprised, I allowed her to put my hand on top of her head.

My fingers moved on their own, soaking up all they could from her head.  Her hair wasn’t like straw, nor like silk.  It was something in-between.  Thin, a little oily, but also soft to the touch.  Judging from how high my hand was, she was a tiny little thing.  I had to dwarf her by over a foot.  And her head was small.  My fingers inched out, tracing the head beneath them.

“Stop that.”  She scolded.

My fingers stopped moving.  “Sorry.”

“I don’t like massages.”

“You’re missing out.”

“Sure I am.”  The happiness in her voice returned.  “So what are you touching?”

“Your head.”

“Correct.  When you think of me, I want you to think of the color Yellow.”

“Yellow?”

“Yellow can be described as happiness or energetic.”  She said.  “Both of which describe me!”

I thought about the familiar books on the shelves.  “Happiness?”

“Joyful abundance maybe?”  She went on.  “It’s also the color of my hair, before I dyed it.”

“I see.”

I tried to envision her as a yellow.  The happiness and energetic song I could understand.  But associating that with a color was something else.  I envisioned her as I first met her, with boots and leather and tininess and absentmindedness.

“You can’t see.”

“It’s an expression.”

“Oh, riiight.”  She said.  “So, you understand then?”

“I think so.”  I nodded slowly.  “This is a very interesting way of doing things.”

“Awesome!”  She laughed aloud.  “We’ve got a lot to do, so let’s go!”

“No.”

“What?  Why not?”  She whined.

I smiled.  “First off, you’re loud.”

“Oops, sorry.”  She whispered.

“Secondly, I am working right now.”

“Riiight.”  She laughed, but quietly.  “You’ve got stuff to do.”

“Correct.”

“Then I’ll hunt you down another day to do this!”

“I would prefer not.”

“I’ll see you in a few days.”

My hand fell as she stepped away and back down the stairs.

“Wait.”

A pause.  “What?”

“I never got your name.”

“Oh, right.  Sorry, silly me.”  She ran up the stairs again and took my hand and shook it vigorously.  “My name is Crystal.”

I envisioned yellow as I turned my head to look at her.  “And I am Benji.”