Read Online Now I See You by Nicole C. Kear - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nicole C. Kear
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told me he worked in development for a film company, and I told him I was an actress.
“Well, it was great to meet you,” he said, pointing his cane at a forty-five-degree angle as he readied to head out. “Listen, if you ever need anything, let me know. Or if you want to come by and have a cup of coffee and discuss movies, it’d be a pleasure.”
It wasn’t a come-on or anything, just a genuine, neighborly offer.
“Sure, okay. Thanks,” I said brightly. “Thanks a lot.”
I never took him up on his offer. In fact, when I passed him on the street, I mostly walked right by without saying a word. Yes, it felt wrong, like I was manually pushing the dial of my moral compass away from “Right and Good,” dangerously close to “Damnation and Hellfire Await.” But no matter how affable and attractive Greg was, no matter how well-groomed and gainfully employed, he was a reminder of something I had gotten very adept at forgetting. Running into him threatened my buoyancy.
And what a bubbly, delightful buoyancy it was. Only two years had passed since my visit to Dr. Hall but I felt light-years away from the dismal, dark place I’d inhabited after my diagnosis.
Sometimes, when I was working as a counselor with the circus school kids, if it was a slow day the program director would let them have a turn on the flying trapeze and occasionally, I’d take a stab at it, too. Climbing up the rungs of that ever-narrowing ladder made my stomach lurch but I couldn’t let a five-year-old show me up. And besides, I was making hay while the sun shone.
I’d stand on the platform almost sick with nerves, one arm reaching backward to the cable to keep from falling, and the other arm stretching forward, reaching for the bar, fingers shaking. Then, before I knew it, I’d be dropping, not falling but leaping into thin air, every muscle activated, every part of me awake. I could fly. With every swing, I was pushing back the darkness from inching any closer. With every swing, I was setting myself free.
I’d promised my father it would be okay and it was. It was better than okay. My life was now in Technicolor, bright enough for even my eyes.
Tip #6: On applying fake eyelashes
As a rule of thumb, the secretly blind should avoid all activities in which they are required to glue objects onto their face. This includes the application of fake eyelashes. At best, you’ll stick the lashes on asymmetrically, making it look like one side of your face has melted. At worst, the black, feathery clump will land in the area between your lid and your brow, causing people to think you’re under attack by mutant spiders.
Should fake lashes be an occupational necessity—as is the case with celebrity impersonators and actors specializing in mid-twentieth-century farce, simply enlist the aid of a colleague. This can be achieved by batting your real lashes and blaming your abysmal fine motor skills.
Then try to find an office job. You have enough problems without worrying about this shit.
6. NOT WITH A WHIMPER
It was hot inside that birthday cake, even in the bikini. Tight, too. I crouched low within its wooden frame, wondering what the difference was between jumping out of a cake in a bikini in real life, and pretending to, in an Off-Off-Broadway show. Art, I guessed. But mostly, the tips. I was doing this particular cake dance gratis, in the hope that the play would get picked up by producers and moved to Off-Broadway. I’d graduated college a year and a half before and had managed to get an agent and my Actor’s Equity card, but that didn’t mean I could turn down work, not even the unpaid, jump-out-of-cakes kind.
My share of the rent for our railroad apartment, perched above a taco shop in Park Slope, was covered by my receptionist job at an accounting firm, and with the cash I got tutoring middle schoolers, bartending a few nights a week, and visiting Nonny for Sunday dinner (“Here, take twenty dollars! What, am I gonna
“Well, it was great to meet you,” he said, pointing his cane at a forty-five-degree angle as he readied to head out. “Listen, if you ever need anything, let me know. Or if you want to come by and have a cup of coffee and discuss movies, it’d be a pleasure.”
It wasn’t a come-on or anything, just a genuine, neighborly offer.
“Sure, okay. Thanks,” I said brightly. “Thanks a lot.”
I never took him up on his offer. In fact, when I passed him on the street, I mostly walked right by without saying a word. Yes, it felt wrong, like I was manually pushing the dial of my moral compass away from “Right and Good,” dangerously close to “Damnation and Hellfire Await.” But no matter how affable and attractive Greg was, no matter how well-groomed and gainfully employed, he was a reminder of something I had gotten very adept at forgetting. Running into him threatened my buoyancy.
And what a bubbly, delightful buoyancy it was. Only two years had passed since my visit to Dr. Hall but I felt light-years away from the dismal, dark place I’d inhabited after my diagnosis.
Sometimes, when I was working as a counselor with the circus school kids, if it was a slow day the program director would let them have a turn on the flying trapeze and occasionally, I’d take a stab at it, too. Climbing up the rungs of that ever-narrowing ladder made my stomach lurch but I couldn’t let a five-year-old show me up. And besides, I was making hay while the sun shone.
I’d stand on the platform almost sick with nerves, one arm reaching backward to the cable to keep from falling, and the other arm stretching forward, reaching for the bar, fingers shaking. Then, before I knew it, I’d be dropping, not falling but leaping into thin air, every muscle activated, every part of me awake. I could fly. With every swing, I was pushing back the darkness from inching any closer. With every swing, I was setting myself free.
I’d promised my father it would be okay and it was. It was better than okay. My life was now in Technicolor, bright enough for even my eyes.
Tip #6: On applying fake eyelashes
As a rule of thumb, the secretly blind should avoid all activities in which they are required to glue objects onto their face. This includes the application of fake eyelashes. At best, you’ll stick the lashes on asymmetrically, making it look like one side of your face has melted. At worst, the black, feathery clump will land in the area between your lid and your brow, causing people to think you’re under attack by mutant spiders.
Should fake lashes be an occupational necessity—as is the case with celebrity impersonators and actors specializing in mid-twentieth-century farce, simply enlist the aid of a colleague. This can be achieved by batting your real lashes and blaming your abysmal fine motor skills.
Then try to find an office job. You have enough problems without worrying about this shit.
6. NOT WITH A WHIMPER
It was hot inside that birthday cake, even in the bikini. Tight, too. I crouched low within its wooden frame, wondering what the difference was between jumping out of a cake in a bikini in real life, and pretending to, in an Off-Off-Broadway show. Art, I guessed. But mostly, the tips. I was doing this particular cake dance gratis, in the hope that the play would get picked up by producers and moved to Off-Broadway. I’d graduated college a year and a half before and had managed to get an agent and my Actor’s Equity card, but that didn’t mean I could turn down work, not even the unpaid, jump-out-of-cakes kind.
My share of the rent for our railroad apartment, perched above a taco shop in Park Slope, was covered by my receptionist job at an accounting firm, and with the cash I got tutoring middle schoolers, bartending a few nights a week, and visiting Nonny for Sunday dinner (“Here, take twenty dollars! What, am I gonna
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