Free Cockeyed by Ryan Knighton

at my feet, secretly hating me and my educational goals or sitcom fetish. Then there was the matter of my permanent disinterest in Frisbee. A dog was out of the question.
    I only hoped that my training with a stick would differ greatly from the kind of training given with guide dogs. What I’d read and heard suggested mobility instructors liked to place a blind person and her new dog in perilous situations—
walking along edges, or into traffic, or through minefields, that sort of thing. That didn’t appeal. Dropping me off, say, at night, in an unknown neighbourhood and telling me to find my way home with only a length of white fiberglass with a golf club handle for assistance—well, if that was my training, I’d rather stay home forever. Maybe just a little training, just the basics, would be enough.
    I stood waiting in the lobby for a few minutes. Soon a wiry man in heavy glasses burst from behind a door. He came at me with his open hand, as a mugger might with a fishing knife. This was a man whose hand needed shaking, and bad. So much, in fact, that he snatched mine from my side before I could offer it. Only later would it occur to me that he couldn’t be sure I’d seen his greeting, so he took responsibility for the ritual. That memory is my clearest of the day. It may be the first time somebody ever approached me as a blind person.
    â€œHi,” he said. “Ryan, right? I’m Jimmy. I’ll be your m-m-mobility instructor today.”
    We’d spoken briefly on the phone, and I recognized his voice. The stutter, too.
    â€œToday?” I asked. “Will this take more than today?”
    â€œJust a few—a few—” His stutter hamstrung him on the next word, so he changed the approach. “It won’t take long,” he said.
    He placed my hand on his elbow for guidance. Together we made our way through several corridors. The place seemed to be bursting at the edges. Boxes and broken chairs and the odd table crowded the hallways, stuff pushed and stacked to the sides. Maybe these obstacles would be part of
my training, I thought. I paid attention and memorized what I could. If training wouldn’t take long, I’d make it take even less time.
    Our final turn brought us into a stairwell that we descended, until we emerged into the bowels of the bunker. A large, open, and musty concrete basement. A few orange pylons peppered the floor, and a few large support beams interrupted the open training space. Otherwise, two men were off in a corner, one of them rhythmically tapping a cane while the other offered praise. The room was dim. I could hardly make out a thing. I only heard the two men, and I only knew of the pillars and pylons because Jimmy yanked me around them, saying, “Watch out for the pylon on your left,” or “We’re passing a post on your right.” Extra letters accompanied his descriptions. I don’t mean to mock them, either. The stutter remains something memorable and good. I felt more at ease because of it. We were both somewhat vulnerable and, in our own ways, hesitant.
    From a rack of canes on the wall, Jimmy selected a few, measured them, and chose one that stood chest-high. He showed me how to collapse the stick into its four short segments and how the cane could be quickly reassembled with a flick of the handle, allowing the lengths to drop and the elastic cord to naturally pull the cane back into shape.
    â€œQuick to store, quick to retrieve,” he noted. High-speed camouflage, I thought.
    Next we used one of the pillars. My first lesson would be about swinging the cane for maximum defence. The cane, Jimmy explained, is held at a forty-five-degree angle to the
ground, lifted, and swung left and right. The outside edges are tapped. Don’t drag or wipe. Lift and swing.
    â€œWhen I step forward with my left foot,” he said, “I should be t-tapping on the right. This way I know nothing is where my right