In grad school I ran into a blind undergrad named Frank. I was exiting the English building as he and his guide dog Bruno were coming in. Bruno was a giant Black Lab and he bowled through the door just as I opened it. All three of us collided. Undergraduate essays flew everywhere.
Frank was a funny kid who thought nothing of telling strangers he’d lost his sight while having vigorous sexual intercourse and that the advantages of blindness were, in his estimation so great, he was paying Jesus a daily fee not to cure him.
We went to a downtown bar for coffee. “No one orders coffee here, so they’ll always make you a fresh pot,” Frank said. Then he added: “And the waitresses love my dog.”
He was right, both about the coffee and the waitresses.: “Its Frank and Bruno!” shouted a girl from someplace out back. We were waited on by three young women. Bruno got a bowl of Coca-Cola with ice.
“Is he supposed to drink that?” I asked. “No,” said Frank, “But its his favorite thing.”
“You don’t give him beer, I hope…?” I asked. “No beer,” said Frank. “Bruno’s my driver.”
In the weeks to come I’d learn a lot from Frank. He carried his blindness lightly; parried with sighted people, most of whom as I came to see, were either clueless or intrusive, routinely asking insensitive questions: “How did you go blind?” “When?” “Do you have dreams?” “How do you dress yourself?”
In the years to come, when I got my own white cane, and then a guide dog, I would have to field these questions too.
“I see that being blind is like being the guy in high school with all the little notes stuck on his back,” I said.
“Yeah that’s pretty much it,” said Frank. “Ask me stupid questions.” “Oh come on, you can try harder than that!” He laughed.
Bruno drank his Coca-Cola and ate the ice.
Planet of the Blind 