Free Cockeyed by Ryan Knighton Page A

foot will g-g-go.”
    Made sense to me. I tried the method out and became a walking metronome. Caning is a perpetual rhythm. You do, quite literally, walk to the beat of your own drum. A beat also involves beating on something. That was our next concern. Jimmy aligned me a good distance from a pillar and tasked me with some deliberate stick work.
    â€œNow, I want you to cl-cl-close your eyes, no cheating with what you’ve got, and walk towards the post. Use your cane and st-st-stop when you tap the obstacle in front of you.”
    I did as I was told, closed my eyes—not that I could see much, anyway—and walked directly towards the pillar. After a couple of steps, a more natural rhythm with the cane emerged, but I slowed. I knew something was coming. I could feel it, but not with the cane, not yet. My anticipation swung out further. It felt for what I knew must be inevitable. After a few more steps, I still hadn’t connected, so I slowed down even more, breaking into a pronounced stutter-step. I worried my cane would miss the pillar, and that worry lit in me a familiar but curious sensation. Vertigo. Walking in the dark, unsure of what’s to come, is closest in feeling to walking off the edge of a cliff. Each step was into nothing until I felt firm and empty ground under my foot again. The edge of the world is always the next step when you’re blind.
    Then Jimmy spoke with what sounded like urgency.

    â€œS-s-s—” he began, so I stopped. Maybe I was about to clip the pillar or trip over a pylon or—“S-super! Keep it straight,” he said, “you’re doing great! Maybe pick up the pace a bit. You’ll learn to t-trust the cane after a while.”
    I resumed my shuffle. Soon enough, my cane whacked the pillar. Artificial sight rattled through my hand and up my arm. From now on, that would be my way of looking. Not a subtle vibration of light but clunky, whopping frictions in my muscles. I was groping and pawing about the face of the planet, like my ancient forebears. I was primal.
    â€œGood,” Jimmy said, “now follow my voice and we’ll try the stairs.”
    At the foot of the staircase he took my cane and showed me how to tap the lip of the steps as I ascended them. The sound carried a memory. I was a kid again, running a stick along a neighbour’s fence. Or maybe that was a movie about a kid and a fence. Either way, the technique transformed a little boy’s pleasure into a set of eyes. When the sound stops, Jimmy explained, when there’s nothing left to tap, you know the next step is the final one. Then he showed me how to descend. Hold the cane parallel with the decline of the stairs, he said, and let the tip extend below. The cane connects with the ground first and tells you when the stairs finish. Again, it all made sense. Such a simple and elegant solution for the complex eye. I tried it out, and it worked. We had stairs, and we had obstacles down tight. Now it was time for the building ledges and open sewer covers.
    â€œG-g-great,” Jimmy said. “Any questions?”
    â€œNope. Seems clear enough. What’s next?”

    â€œThat’s it. You’re r-ready. Call if you have any questions.”
    â€œThat’s it?” I couldn’t imagine every situation solved with just those two techniques. “What about, I don’t know, traffic?”
    Jimmy laughed. “If you can touch it with your cane, you’re too c-c-close.”
    My training, in the end, took as much time from my life as morning toast. My new complex eye wasn’t that complex after all. When I stepped outside, I tried my caning technique on the sidewalk. Then, feeling ridiculous for swinging it across what I knew was a clear and open path, I stuffed my stick in my backpack and caught a bus home. My cane stayed in the bag for several weeks. I had an aid, but despite its handiness, I had yet to truly take it on. That would be the