My Final Night Offline

During this final night, my phone rings. I expect Bob Barker to be calling. He’d be coming out of retirement to tell me, “The price is right. Now, go check your email early.”

When I eagerly answer with a squeal, I almost believe my fantasy will come true, but Travis is on the other end. He asks me over to his place for dinner. Since I’ve never been to his house —- and since this moment is fairly monumental, after all —- why should I stay home?

I hop in the shower after sending in my invoices. I’m singing (what else?) “My Brain Says Stop, But My Heart Says Go!” The song is fitting, especially since I can still hear my Twitter feed begging to be read this close to the end of my challenge.

I sing so badly that I should be arrested, but my spirits are high, and I sing on. When I’m dressed again, I gather up my phone, my Victor Reader Stream (since I’ll download books later), and my cell. I’ll send a mass text out at midnight.

When my cab arrives, I race out to the driver and leap inside. Rapidly, I recite the address as if the information had been pre-loaded. Soon, I’m off to a memorable night.

Travis and I are sitting in his living room. It’s almost November 1. A soft fire is crackling in a hearth to my left, emphasizing the calm atmosphere. Yes, a real hearth. The walls are a blinding white, a stark contrast to the dark wooden floors. The space is visually-impaired-friendly because every surface is high-contrast. The countertops are black with a white sink and a white stove. All the stove’s buttons feature braille, and the knobs are huge and multicolored. The fridge is white with a black handle. In the living room, the coffee table displays dark artifacts that make them easy for me to see, even from a distance. Although I haven’t seen much of the place —- just the bedroom, the bathroom, and this living room —- it all appeals to my visually impaired eye. I’m even more amazed that Travis chose to have his house this way simply because he’s a total.

“Why wouldn’t I design it this way, silly?” He asks after I’ve declared him a genius for his interior decorating. “I have blind friends, too, you know.”

As it turns out, a few of his interior decorator friends had come to arrange his place this way at no cost to him. I can’t help but admire the sights as I lean back into his arms on the couch. Above the entertainment center is a tactile picture of a coffee cup by an unknown blind artist. Occasionally, talking technology from down the main hall announces various information from different rooms. All through the night, I hear how warm each room is, and the time is announced every hour.

Although this house was designed to keep out sound, there’s always a faint whisper of the wind outside, a train thundering down elevated tracks, people laughing as they walk in the distance, plains soaring overhead, and cars puttering along. Travis creates some ambiance as well with soft music through Pandora —- which I still can’t use quite yet. His mixture of classical singles, country hits, and rock one-offs lingers quietly in my ear canal. I venture through the vast home while Travis cooks dinner.

I want to be nosy, so I have a peek at his computer room. He’s running a modern-ish Windows 7 computer that needs some cleaning. I clean out a few registry items left over by uninstalled programs, and I do some minor maintenance on the hard drive as my good eye dances over this tech hub. He has all sorts of technology here, from iPhones to laptops resting on desks to a 30-inch monitor that’s connected to an Apple TV and covers a good portion of one wall. Everything surrounds a queen-sized bed. I can’t help it; I bounce on the bed to the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”

Just as Travis calls me to dinner, I spot the internet-connected icon on the desktop. I stare at the symbol, which confirms his computer is connected to a wireless network. Dare I cheat at such an important time in my month-long quest? Using keystrokes, I tell NVDA to take me to the start menu, where Firefox tops the list. My fingers deftly strike the navigation keys. The cursor is now on the Firefox icon, which NVDA confirms. My finger twitches, hovering over the Enter button.

“Robbie,” Travis calls. Swiftly, he appears in the room. I wonder if he doesn’t have mind-reading powers. He smiles when he realizes I’m at his computer. With a few keystrokes, he has NVDA repeat which icon I’m on.

“Tsk, tsk. Now, were we really gonna give up on the last day? Is this how you were at Christmas?”

“But I wanna!” I whine. Gently, he drags me away from temptation.

Now, sitting on the couch after eating dinner, we’re watching a few movies and talking about my experiences throughout the last month. We hold hands in the brightly lit living room. It’s 11:59 p.m. The city’s sounds trickle in and out of our conversations as music continues to provide a backdrop. I’m resting my head on his shoulder, at peace with myself and what I’ve done. I know my inbox will be flooded tomorrow, and I know people will finally get to see me tweet again. I almost feel like I’m going home after a long vacation, and the feeling’s bittersweet. In a way, it offers a kind of closure about myself that I never would have thought possible. I can, indeed, survive without the internet —- without Twitter, YouTube, Facebook, or emails. Disconnecting was hard, but I’ve done it, and the accomplishment feels monumental.

The hardest thing about this month has been getting and sending information. I’ve had to submit my work via fax to email addresses. Sometimes, I didn’t even send work in because the fax machine wouldn’t send to an email address.

On the pure white coffee table, I open my laptop and install wireless drivers. After restarting the computer, I hover the NVDA cursor over the Firefox icon, waiting to press Enter. I turn to Travis. He’s holding his iPhone, ready to mention me in a tweet. He really is wonderful. I turn to him and lean on his shoulder again as he wraps an arm around me. In one minute, I’ll have access to everything again.

I wonder what’s changed. How much about the world has evolved in the last month that hasn’t made it onto the radio or TV? Are there flying cars? Is there a definitive cure for HIV?

Travis’s arms squeeze me, and I lean in closer to him. As I look into his brown eyes, the clock strikes midnight. All the talking clocks in all the rooms announce the hour, creating an odd echo effect like in a movie. I look at the laptop and lean over to press Enter. I expect my computer to crash from the anticipation when I press the button. Shockingly, though, it keeps running.

I turn back to Travis.

My cell phone beeps and announces in speech that I have a new message—-a tweet.

“@theblindwriter: Glad to see you’re back online!”

When Travis hears the tweet he’s sent, he smiles. “Well, my little trooper. Are you going to answer or what?”

I lean in closer with a sultry grin. “Travis, dear. Do you really want me to reply right now?”

“Do it, or no more cookies for you.”

“If you insist.” I grin. As the clocks go on announcing the hour, I plant my lips on Travis’s, leaving Firefox unopened on my laptop. Behind us, the fire dances in celebration. I don’t want to pull away from Travis, and he doesn’t want to pull away from me. We’re in our own world where Twitter and things are just bonuses. I don’t have to return to the net just yet. I set my phone down next to the laptop and lean in again, pressing harder against his lips. Finally, I pull back an inch to smile up at him. “How’s that for a reply?”

“LOL,” he says before kissing me again. Before he takes me back to his room, I close the laptop and power off my phone. More tweets have stormed in, welcoming me back online. But I have something else to attend to, and the internet isn’t required.