The Two Men at Bell’s End
Short Story
Mr Mink was appreciating the autumn beauty of the street so much, he felt compelled to comment on it to his blind friend, Mr Walton.
“Would you check out the leaves! Bloody brilliant colours!” he said, before erupting into belly-bouncing chortles from his wheelchair.
Mr Walton, a hand on one of his friend’s wheelchair handles, and the other holding the cane thrust out in front of him, waited until Mr Mink had stopped laughing before delivering his standard rebuttal, “I feel that, if I could see, your bruised, battered, potato of a head would ruin the startling vista.”
“Bugger off, you clown,” said Mr Mink.
“Cripple,” said Mr Walton.
“Car,” said Mr Mink, stopping just in time to prevent them both from being run over by a car backing out of a driveway.
“Woah, that was close, wasn’t it fellas?” called the driver from his elevated Range Rover.
“Prick,” said Mr Mink and Mr Walton in unison.
The man gave them both the finger, which only Mr Mink could see, and after completing his aggressive, one-handed reverse, he tore off up the street.
The two friends continued walking, their progress up the street marked by Mr Walton’s crunching of autumn leaves underfoot, and Mr Mink’s under-wheel. They crossed another street and began down a slight decline.
“God Almighty,” said Mr Mink, suddenly. “Would you look at her.”
“Oh, yeah, no worries,” said Mr Walton, sarcastically.
“No, really, if there is a God Almighty he should choose right about now to cure your blindness,” said Mr Mink.
“While he’s at it, you need some help with that impotence, don’t you?” shot back Mr Walton.
“Honestly, mate, you’re missing out,” said Mr Mink.
“Describe her for me. Go on, humour me,” said Mr Walton.
Mr Mink was silent for a moment. “Well, she’s got these…breasts,” he began.
“Well I’m glad she’s got those. It comes with the chromosomes,” said Mr Walton.
“Blonde hair, too, tied in a ponytail.”
“Hair? Excellent.”
“These sort of high cheekbones, some lovely legs,” said Mr Mink. “And I’m going to shut up now.”
Mr Walton felt the woman run past him, and smelled the faint scent of sweat and deodorant left in her trail.
“What a woman,” said Mr Mink.
Mr Walton let out a piercing wolf-whistle.
They both heard the woman stop running. Next, they heard her angry voice ring out,”HEY YOU! WHAT GIVES YOU THE RIGHT TO DO THAT TO ME WHEN I’M OUT HAVING A RUN!”
Mr Mink spluttered, and Mr Walton felt his hand wrest from its grip on the wheelchair handle as his friend spun around to address the woman.
“Woah, hey, it was him!” said Mr Mink, and Mr Walton felt the finger jabbing at him, even though he couldn’t see it.
“HIM? HE’S BLIND, DIPSHIT!” she yelled, marching closer. “HE CAN’T EVEN SEE WHAT HE’S WHISTLING AT!”
“No, well, yes, but-”
Mr Walton heard the woman spit and Mr Mink gasp in horror.
“Prick,” said the woman, before turning back and running off.
Mr Mink watched her go, mouth open in shock. Mr Walton imagined watching her go, probably into a lovely sunset.
“You utter bell-end,” whispered Mr Mink.
“Blind bell-end,” Mr Walton corrected him.
Despite himself, Mr Mink began to chortle again.
