IT COUNTS AS SEEING

I went right up to him and took his elbow, not even asking him if I should because he was heading hellfire for the first step, not seeing—because how could he?—that step, flashing his red-tipped cane around in the air (in the air, I stress). What else could I do except grab him? Others might have gone for his hand or shoulder, but having been trained in the proprieties of guiding the blind, I took the back of his elbow, which he jerked quickly away before stating, flatly, in a firm, resolute manner, with a slight accent—British or mock British, at least Harvard—back off. Back off, he says, and I let go and then he tumbles all the way down to the bottom of the stairs, doing this cartwheel motion, head over heels. He had a firm grasp on the acrobatics of his tumble, I think, and when it slowed down in my mind it was very much like those folks up in space goofing off, showing the schmucks down on earth, poor souls, the delights of zero-G. This blind guy took a prim and proper control of his body in relation to gravity and went down those stairs with wild agility, not a bone broken or a ligament torn in this version of events. Across the street people looked wild-eyed at the scene. One gentleman—in an elegant suit coat and tie—I noticed specifically, a witness, who would back up my claim (or so I thought at the time) that I was only trying to assist this blind guy in getting down the stairs. This man made a beeline across the street and stepped over the moaning blind man and came right up and began to shout. He had a ruddy face, up close, with pockmarks, a drinker’s face, my father would say, and this face ruined the suit coat. Up close it was stained with glossy streaks of what look like melted butter. This quick assessment made me realize that he was a derelict who, along with one other guy in town, slept in doorways, copped a buck here and there, and so on and so forth. I realized that he didn’t witness the fall, and was yelling at me about something else, had me pegged for someone else, apparently, and was yelling,—Marvin, you’re going to have to spare me this kind of aggravation, you bastard, because for God’s sake, Mary is not going to leave you for me, or me for you, or any of that. I didn’t see the blind guy at all before he hit that first step, until he was already falling. I was in the bank shuffling through my withdrawal—new twenties, still crisp and unbroken and therefore impossible to get apart. I was trying to part them and walk at the same time—around me the hollow cacophony of the marble, real marble from the days of real banks—when out of the edge of my eye, not the corner, through the bright front doors, bathed in midday light, really, really bright, I saw the blind guy (I had noticed him ahead of me in the line and wondered how he might find his way to the proper window, or the exact place in front of the window, noting that the cashier gave him slight directions, a bit to your right, a bit to your left, sir—until lined up in the correct trajectory, he moved forward), but then I was beckoned to my window and went up and put the check into the little metal throat and forgot about the blind guy until I was back by the door counting the cash and saw him take that step into what must have been, surprisingly, empty space.