Blind Ambition

When I lived in L. A. I used to drive out to Las Vegas a couple times a year to gamble and screw around and raise all kinds of hell. On one trip there I met a spunky little bear, dragged him back to my hotel, and making polite conversation afterwards I told him I wanted to move to New York. He just happened to know the CEO of a software development company there, and he gave me the guy’s name and number. Two weeks later “Jeff” flew me out for an interview and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Sex had paid off for me in the past, but never with a retirement plan.

Jeff didn’t introduce me to my future boss, which should have raised a red flag. Eric was “on vacation,” he said, and when I finally met him I knew this was true: he was on vacation from cleanliness, from etiquette, and from the normal Earthling ways. To make matters worse I was stuffed into a corner of his office, which pissed off both of us. Jeff shoved me in like I was a wayward kitten and slammed the door shut behind me.

Without even looking up from his monitor Eric immediately laid down the law: no music, no phone calls, no cologne, no noisy jewelry. “So I guess my dangly earrings are out?” I asked, and he nodded gravely. Apparently there was no fooling around, either. Just to prove the point Eric leapt up and raced over to my desk every few minutes to check out exactly what was on my computer screen. The first time he did it I got my mouse clicking like a geiger counter at Chernobyl. By the twelfth time my finger was shaking like a sick cricket and I’d started asking myself:

Are New Yorkers born crazy, or is it something they develop over time?

For putting up with this insanity I got a ratty old chair, a desk full of discarded fast-food bags, and a computer with less memory than Ronald Reagan. It soon hit me that this was hell, despite the air conditioning, and the first thing I needed to do was bond with Satan. I’d just launched into a wacky little rant about bagel slicers and how dumb you’d have to be to need one when Eric slid his pale pink hands from his ergonomic keyboard and looked at me for the first time ever.

“My wife nearly chopped off her thumb slicing a bagel,” he said.

It was all downhill from there.

The next day I could barely bring myself to enter the building. I stared at my reflection in the dark glass door, trying to summon up the courage to either go inside or scamper screaming for greener pastures. When I finally yanked it open there was somebody pushing on it from the other side.

“MOTHERFUCKER!” she hollered, throwing up her hands like Jesus had returned. “Don’t grab the fuckin’ door out of my hand!”

“Sorry,” I said, twitching like Don Knotts. I held the door open but ducked behind it in case she decided to hit. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Yeah? Well, ain’t that a fuckin’ coincidence. There’s two blind people trying to use the same fuckin’ door.”

I froze for a second to consider how completely screwed I was. I hadn’t done anything wrong: the door was so heavily tinted I hadn’t seen her, and I hadn’t opened it all that quick. But she sure was blind, with the black sunglasses and the white cane and the dog, and you don’t argue with a blind woman, even if she is a bitch on wheels. I was torn: I wanted to tell her to fuck off, but I also wanted to help her across the street. “No, see, I’m not blind, but -- “

“CONGRATULATIONS! Write down your address and I’ll drop off your trophy.”

Part of me wanted to leave, but another part wanted to assuage her feelings. As usual the stupid part won. “Look, I said I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there, and I didn’t mean to -- “

She tapped the door with her cane and it rang like a bell. “You can’t see through glass? Wait, refresh my memory. Isn’t glass, like, clear?”

“Some glass is clear, but this isn’t. It’s smoky.”

“Smoky. And you can’t see through smoke either, I guess. Even air is giving you problems now.”

“I’m sorry for the third time. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Now I’ve got to get to work.”

She smiled and crossed her arms, her shoulders spanning the doorway, and as I tried to squeeze by she locked her fingers on my arm. “Tell you what,” she said, flattening me against the doorjamb. “I’ll lead the way. You might run into another bad patch of air.”

We startled to wrestle and her dog began to snarl, and if this had been a cartoon my head would have transformed into an overheated teapot. “Let me go!” I begged, trying to beat her back without actually hitting her.

“Not a chance!” she growled through gritted teeth, her hot pink face pressed up against mine. “You knew I was there, asshole. But you fucked with the wrong gal. Now just shut up and smile, because I’m going to lead you to your fucking office.”

At this point I didn’t care if she was blind or deaf or harboring disabled baby seals in her armpits. I was done putting up with her crap. With the burst of energy God gives the crazy I wrenched myself free and grabbed her wrists like maracas. “Look, bitch,” I barked, oblivious to the crowd gathering behind me. “I don’t know what your fuckin’ problem is, but you need to get the fuck away from me. Get your dog to memorize this face, and write this down in fuckin’ Braille: don’t . . . fuckin’ . . . fuck with me. Now get the fuck out of my face and go tap your little white cane back to hell.”

She literally jumped backwards and clanged against the door as I pushed past. A guy in a knit golf shirt and khaki pants tailed me into the lobby and grabbed my shoulder. It was Jeff. “My office, Hans. Right away.”

Oops. All the way up the elevator I shook like a soggy Siamese, silently saying goodbye to health insurance, Free Pizza Fridays, the cute guy from the mailroom I used to “accidentally” bump into in the bathroom. Sure, I hated the job, but I didn’t want to lose it even before my first paycheck. I trailed him to his office, sat down and said goodbye to his spectacular view of the seaport. “I saw the way you treated that blind woman, Hans, and I have to say, I never thought I’d see that kind of attitude coming from you. Clean out your desk and report to HR. We’re kicking you upstairs.”

I squirmed in my chair and the vinyl farted. “I know there’s absolutely no excuse, but like I said to her, I didn’t -- upstairs?”

He stuck out his hand and I shook it. “Congratulations,” he said. “You’re the new head of Customer Relations.”



Sitting at my new desk that afternoon I tried to figure out what was happening. I'd assumed that over time the New York attitude would rub off on me, and that eventually I’d be as rude as they were. I just didn’t expect it to happen so fast. Was this how it worked? Did all these assholes start off as regular Joes, but every little psychotic outburst got rewarded until eventually they were sociopathic freaks?

I made myself a promise: I’d stay nice and thoughtful. I’d always be respectful and polite. And somehow I’d work my way up the corporate ladder like no other New Yorker before me: through hard work and dedication and sheer friendliness.

Failing that, I’d need to find a paraplegic.