The morning we visited Barry's house – to say our empathetic words to his shattered leg – involved a) a lot of walking in the rain, b) the stench of Swiffer spray, and c) jazz music playing in the background.
I had been to Barry's house, but only once, and that was when we were searching for a smart all-around tutor to fulfill my educational needs. Since then, Barry's house had changed only slightly, and that was the Swiffer spray. As an old, blind, and rather alone man, he sure did care about the smell and the amount of cluster that was spread across the floors of his townhouse. The walkway leading up to it was clustered, though, with the terribly outdated remnants of leaves, which squished underneath my sneakers everytime I stepped into a pile.
"Do you think he'll like the Stevie Wonder CD we got?" My dad asked and then rang the doorbell three times and we waited there as a scarcely distinguishable whirring noise made its way to the door.
"Stevie Wonder's his favourite jazz singer, and coincidentally his impaired vision buddy," I replied. My mom laughed and Barry finally opened the door, the chemical-like smell hitting me straight in the face.
"Hi Barry, it's Finnegan Annson and my parents." I recited. He grunted.
"Hello Barry, we just came to check up on you, and we've gotten you something as well." My mom said with utmost kindness in her voice, and Barry's door creaked open just a little before I realized that we were walking inside of his jazz box for the second time.
"You really didn't need to get me anything," Barry reasoned as he whir, whir, whirred all the way to the couches. My parents sat down and dragged me with them.
"It's a Stevie Wonder CD, and we all thought you'd like to listen to it while your leg healed. It's got all his best jazz hits, and we all know he's your favourite." My dad explained. Actually, my parents only knew about this fact because when I was in grade 3 and the 'Great Blind Ones' theory had been fully lodged into my brain, I was absolutely and utterly obsessed with the topic of Stevie Wonder. Anything Stevie Wonder would set my heart beating a bazillion kilometres an hour, because he was the so-called 'Best Blind One of the Great Blind Ones'. And that was because Barry had once rambled on to me about Stevie Wonder's entire life, his childhood, his blindness, his songs, and his existence so much that it had become a part of my existence. He was a Great that every Not-Great-Yet wanted to be.
"Thank you so much Victoria – that was too kind of you." My mom chuckled lightly at Barry's comment and a brief moment of silence occurred until I said, "what time is it?"
It was quarter to twelve and that only meant one thing on a Saturday; Orenda was coming to our house very soon. So, after an infinite amount of time spent talking about how long Barry was going to be in his whirring wheelchair, how I was doing in Math, Science, English, etcetera, Barry then brought us some sort of bland-tasting food, and we ate it.
And then after that we finally left, but before I stepped onto the soaking wet doormat in front of his house Barry grabbed my arm, and suddenly put a plastic case in my hand.
"You'll like the songs," he grumbled.
"Your Stevie Wonder CD?" I asked.
"I've got loads, and I figure his voice may inspire you for your essay on music in the 1970's." Barry replied gruffly, but I couldn't help to hear some goodness in his voice.
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The very moment I arrived at the doorstep of my house and the door opened, I sprinted right to my room, ditching the idea of a white cane altogether. My parents told me that they weren't going to the meeting; dad had jokingly said that both of them were too sucky to go to the accountant meeting, but my mom insisted that it was just because it was cancelled. That part was pretty sucky, honestly. So my dad went and did some research on the pathway to become a serial killer or whatever – and my mom went to sleep.
YOU ARE READING
Yellow (editing)
Teen Fiction❝She was a sunflower, and even though she never faced the sun, she was still beautiful.❞ When Finnegan Annson reunites with his anything-but-boring, garden-scented childhood friend Orenda May Castellano on a cold winter day, it's no secret that his...
