Color Blind (Team Red)

by Hammond, T.

  As we approached the entryway leading into the hotel venue, two doormen pulled the tall glass panel doors wide for us to walk in abreast. “Okay Red,” I said, as we started across the lobby towards the bank of elevators. “Lights out for now.”

  “You got it Beautiful,” Red responded. Once again, I was in the dark.

  Earlier, while still in Spokane, we had decided to use only mind speak unless we determined I needed a visual feed. It was important that people have no doubt I was blind. There had been a few incidents when Bas noticed I was responding as a sighted person because I was receiving input from Red. An observation he proved when we were practicing mind sight. I reflexively jerked away from his hand, waving in my face, because I saw through Red what he was doing. I was more aware now, but we wanted to reserve the mind sight for instances where I needed to see particular people or events. The agreed upon signal was if I addressed Red by name, he would turn ‘lights on’ or ‘lights off’. If I was introducing him, it would not count. We knew people were bound to ask my dog’s name, it happened all the time. Even when he wore his service dog vest with ‘Please do not pet or approach me, I am working’, we could rely on at least a half-dozen people asking if the dog was friendly, and could they touch him? Without his working dog vest, we anticipated people asking us all night long. But Red convinced Bas that he wanted a tux, so a tux is what Bas got him. Such a pushover.

  Falling into old habits, David and Bas gave me a running commentary on what was going on around us. This was unintentionally hysterical, as Red also had a constant stream of chatter.

  (D) “We are heading towards the elevators. There’s a bit of a line, so it may take us a while.”

  (R) “They are lined up like cattle in a chute. Mooooooo. I think that security guy has a cattle prod.”

  (Me) “I’m in no hurry, David.” and “I’m pretty sure it’s a Taser, not a cattle prod.”

  (R) “Mmm, that guy stepped in cat poop.”

  (D) “I like the lemon scent they’re using in the potpourri.”

  (Me) “It’s a nice light scent. I think it would smell terrific if they used lime.”

  (R) “I don’t think lime will cover the scent of cat poop any better than lemons, Teresa.”

  (B) “Geez, will you look at the Ho in the black dress? I’ve seen more material on Janey’s Barbie dolls.

  (D) “I think that’s General Brigham’s daughter.”

  (B) “Wow, won’t she be surprised when her father is able to unexpectedly make it to the party?”

  (R) “I think the general will be more surprised when he finds out she’s pregnant.”

  (Me) “Pregnant?”

  (B) “Pregnant? The general’s daughter? Fuck me.”

  (R) “Ha! That’s what she said.”

  (Me) “Red!” (And then, yes, I repeated that last remark to the guys, it WAS funny)

  (Me) “Lights off, Red” (Yeah, my bad, for using his name. Nice to know the code works though.)

  (D) “I think that elevator was over capacity.”

  (B) “Well I didn’t mind the woman with the red hair who caressed my ass on the ride up.”

  (R) “It was her date, the short man with the bushy mustache that touched him.”

  (Me) I stayed silent on this one. We’ll let Bas continue thinking it was the redhead.

  Our arrival at the ballroom was uneventful. There was, indeed, a close resemblance between the people piling off the elevators and cattle being herded into a large pen. David guided us quickly off to the side, out of the traffic flow.

  “I don’t think the elevator was the only thing over capacity. There must be over five hundred people crammed in this room,” Bas complained. “Let’s look for our table and then take Red to the balcony to see if he likes his patch of grass.”

  We already knew that Dexter and his partner would be seated at a table next to us, while Fritz and his companion would be closer to the patio area. The decision to put Fritz, who Bas and David already publically knew, by the balcony was a strategic one. It gave us a reason to be on that side of the room in case we had problems with the mind or visual link range. This mission would be the longest running test of Red’s ability to maintain mental communication, and we wanted a little room in case we taxed him too hard. Fritz would wait until after Red was taken outside, before greeting the Team.

  The doors to the balcony were kept closed, due to the chill in the air, but there was an elderly, hotel-uniformed employee who stood at attention, just inside the ballroom; he opened and closed the doors for anyone that approached. The Team introduced ourselves to the doorman, Henry Witherspoon, who escorted us outside to the patch of lawn brought in for Red. The dog was, of course, ecstatic to be the first to anoint and claim the three by four foot patch of turf. Without my asking (possibly at Bas or David’s direction), Red flashed me a visual while we were in the patio area so I had an idea of the layout. I was able to see Mr. Witherspoon’s frail, bent frame as he shuffled forward to show us the area for smoking, seating, and the best place to stand to get a view of the Bay. Mr. Witherspoon realized, almost immediately, that I would not been able to take advantage of the scenery. “That was insensitive of me, Ms. March. I do apologize.”

  “No apology necessary, Mr. Witherspoon. I consider it a compliment that you forgot my handicap, and were giving us the same tour you would to any guest.”

  Red snuggled his head under one of the old man’s gnarled hands, to encourage an ear scratch. With the man distracted, David eased me toward the balcony railing. I watched through Red’s sight, as we stood, backlit by pinpoint lights of other hotels and skyscrapers surrounding us. In my white stilettos, I was only a couple inches shorter than David, but he still managed to cover me protectively under one arm helping stave off the cool, damp breeze.

  Red took this opportunity to pan the balcony, so I could see the seating area, arranged in a protected alcove, designed to block the wind coming off the water. Bas was chatting with the older doorman, and at one point, offered to shake hands, while continuing an animated conversation. His face lit with genuine enjoyment at the other gentleman’s company. With a final friendly pat to Mr. Witherspoon’s shoulder, Bas turned to us and indicated it was time to go inside.

  “Henry will be sure to let Red in and out whenever he approaches the doorway,” Bas told us. “Henry is a Veteran; he was a combat engineer who fought in both Vietnam and Korea. He’s a really nice man, with a great sense of humor.” David reached across me to shake Mr. Witherspoon’s hand and thank him for his service to our country.

  The elderly man ducked his head shyly. “Sebastian, I wouldn’t have gotten all chatty if I knew you were going to embarrass me in front of the beautiful lady.”

  As a group, we left the balcony. I signed to Red for ‘lights out’ just before we entered the noisy ballroom. Our pace was unhesitating, despite the crush of people, so David and Bastian must have had a good idea of the room’s set up. It was a combination of knowing the table layout and their superior height that allowed the men an advantage as they cleared a trail to our table. We were informed ahead of time, that each of the tables had assigned seating, with little place cards to guarantee your seat. Per prior arrangement, a chair was removed from our table, allowing extra space between us, so that Red could tuck himself under the table. I was impressed with the extent of accommodation and forethought that went into planning for Red’s inclusion. I would have to make sure we sent Lt. Mercer a nice baby gift to show our appreciation for her hard work and attention to detail.

  Knowing we would be going outside during the evening, I had elected to keep my jacket, rather than hand it to the coat attendant. David helped slip the velvet down my arms, and he hung it over the back of my chair. My little beaded purse, which only contained a lipstick and a handkerchief, was placed on the seat, which he tucked closer to the table. David carried a thin wallet with my ID, emergency cash and medical info, in an inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket so that I would feel comfortable leaving my purse un
attended.

  “Senior Chief?” A voice asked from behind us.

  Bastian laughed, “Not anymore, Fritz, just plain Bas now. How are you doing? You remember David Preston, don’t you?”

  There was shared laughter at the ridiculousness of introducing David who had been the supervisor for both men. “Hello, Sir, nice to see you again,” Fritz greeted.

  “Oh, no! I left the ‘sirs’ behind me when I retired. Just David, please. Nice to see you again. With a deft maneuver, David angled me around so I was included in the conversation, “And this beautiful lady is Teresa March. Teresa, this is Fritz Lieb, we used to work together.”

  One of the guys must have signaled Red, because I suddenly had a visual of the group. And so began the introductions. I met Fritz’ partner Leanne Clarey, a lovely silver-haired woman with sharp features in a dainty, fine-boned face. I think her hair must have been prematurely grey, as she didn’t look a day over forty. Aware of Bas’ earlier caution to monitor my reactions, I made sure to ignore Dexter and his companion who were standing patiently behind Fritz, until they were introduced and brought forward for their greeting. Dexter’s date for the evening, was Roselyn Myers (call me, Rose). At first glance, she appeared non-descript with her bobbed brown hair and plain features, but when she smiled, her face lit up with the pure enjoyment of a shared joke. It was hard to school my features, and not be drawn in by her charisma. Both women gushed over Red, who reveled in the attention of his two new admirers.

  “Rose has dogs,” Red told me. His head tilted to take advantage of the scratches she bestowed to his ear. I listened to the little moans as he leaned into her hand.

  “Red’s a good boy,” I praised. Lights out.

  The chatting between us was informal, although Dexter brought up the fact they all worked together at Wild Horse Security out of San Diego. “You remember Lt. Commander Thomas, don’t you? Russell Thomas started a security company five years ago. Ninety percent of the field operatives are Mustangs. We’ve had to lower our standards to get some key positions filled, so there are a few NCOs and a retired Jr. Lieutenant in the ranks.” The teasing was a direct poke at Bastian, who was the only non-Mustang in the group- besides me, of course. I was grateful for the ranks 101 primer Bas and David had given me in the car ride from the hospital a couple weeks back; without it I would have missed the byplay.

  “I thought you had to be a Warrant Officer to be a Mustang,” I said. “Why would a commissioned officer start a business that was predominantly staffed with warrants?”

  “There are two main reasons,” Fritz replied. “Firstly, Warrant Officers are technical specialists, which are the skill sets we are looking for. Secondly, all Warrant Officers are Mustangs, as they come up through the enlisted ranks. There is a smaller percentage of commissioned officers who start out enlisted, then switch to officer status while in service. Those officers have a half-dozen or so years as enlisted, and so qualify as Mustangs.”

  There was a little more conversation as the guys caught up with the whereabouts of mutual friends. We were probably grouped together for five minutes, before David, with some reluctance, excused us to circulate.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Bas separated from David and I to meet and greet on his own. With Red to my usual position on the left, and David to my right, we managed the crowd fairly well, stopping for the people that predictably asked about Red and wanted to shower him with attention.

  “We need to get out more often, Teresa” Red told me. “These people are starved for canine therapy. We need to make ourselves available for all these folks who need to hug and scratch a dog, it would be a public service.” Yeah, my dog the humanitarian (insert eye roll here).

  It was a good fifteen minutes before David halted to introduce me to our hosts. “Good to see you, Sir,” David greeted. “This is Teresa March. Teresa, this is General and Mrs. Brigham. Mrs. Brigham is one of the organizers for the Black and White Holiday Gala.”

  “Oh, just call me Sarah. It’s lovely to have you here, Teresa. And you must be, Red,” she crooned.

  “Is it you I can thank for the accommodations for my boy here?” I asked. “Thank you so much for all you’ve done to make it easier for us. The mini-lawn on the patio is a stroke of genius.”

  “I can’t take credit for any of that, it was all done by my staff. I will be sure to pass along your thanks,” she diffused gracefully.

  Sarah spent a few minutes with me, explaining some of the more challenging aspects of assembling such a large event. She proved to be a witty and engaging conversationalist, entertaining me with stories of mismatched tablecloths (Really, Teresa, a Black and White ball. How hard could it be?), and undelivered caviar. I heard about ice sculptures, open bars, and my personal favorite, the trials of monitoring dress code (… and would you believe she tried to get in wearing silver metallic? Silver, I tell you! Well you can be assured she was turned away at the door).

  “Teresa, Morales is here. I can smell him. They used female bitch pheromones for the scent marker,” Red chuckled.

  Since Red was still considered a juvenile, the pheromones didn’t have the same pull as if he were an adult. But obviously, my dog could understand the joke. My mouth tilted up at the corner.

  “What?” David whispered in my ear.

  “Morales is close by. Someone has a sense of humor; they used female dog pheromones for the scent marker,” I mumbled back.

  “How are you doing, Red?” I stroked a hand over his head as he filled my mind with the festive lighting of the ball room. The press of bodies kept my dog close to my hip, so the visual angles consisted of kneecaps and upwards views of chins. “David, I think the dog needs to move around a little, if you’ll excuse us, I’ll just take a short stroll with him, and meet up with you in a few minutes.”

  “You need any help, Sweetheart?” He placed a soft kiss to my cheek.

  “No, we’re fine. Our boy can find you as soon as we are done.” Red and I stepped away, starting one of many circuits for the evening that ended with us going to the balcony, before Red returned us to David’s side. At one point in the first solo walk around the room, Red made a point to brush by Javier Morales. It was so hard for me to believe that such a young, innocent looking boy was a gun runner. I had Red release the sight link after that, to make sure I didn’t do anything out of character for a blind woman taking a stroll with her companion animal.

  Red told me there were a few people who stared at the damage to my eye, going so far as to whisper furtively to friends standing close by. For the most part, people ignored me after realizing that Red was leading me with the harness/cummerbund rigging. By the time we made our fourth circuit of the night, people were automatically stepping aside, and fewer were stopping us to pet the nice doggy.

  “Doggy? Really?” Red asked. “Are they, like, five?” It’s true, even dressed in jewels and expensive designer gowns, women were baby talking to Red. So much for maintaining some semblance of dignity.

  Dessert was a choice of a chocolate pudding cake, something called a tuxedo cheesecake, or strawberry shortcake. Talk about poor planning! Half the women in the room were wearing white, and all the desserts are ones that would stain if you dropped a morsel in your lap. The waiter was very thoughtful and brought me a single scoop of vanilla ice cream instead. David had strawberry shortcake, and Bas ordered the cheesecake. They were each nice enough to share a bite of their treats with me. There are advantages to being in the middle. A vanilla wafer accented my scoop, which I discretely handed off to my dog, waiting patiently under the table. “Good boy, Red,” I said, from habit. Lights on- just in time to see the under table view of the woman across from us sliding her hand into her date’s open fly. I choked on the water I had just sipped (thank goodness it wasn’t coffee).

  Bas’ solicitous hand gently pounded my back, while David’s concerned, “Teresa, are you all right?” sounded in my ear. My coughing brought Red’s head around to try and peer at me from his spot under the tab
le, giving me an unimpeded view of Bastian’s crotch. Oh boy, the material was pulled tautly across his very generous assets, which caused me to cough harder.

  In sign language, assuming the table would shield most of my hand movements from others, I let the guys know what had caused the choking. I watched as Bas lifted the table cloth edge to peer down at Red, whose head was staring right at his inseam. Through Red’s perspective, I saw Bas knowingly lift an eyebrow, which set me off on peals of laughter. “Thanks, Red,” he grinned, effectively giving Red the lights out code. In the dark again. Geez, this on and off was exhausting. I took another bite of my ice cream to help fortify my weakened defenses.

  I’m pretty sure the rest of the guests at our table thought I was crazy, but Bas explained that the dog was licking my ankle and I am ticklish. Not the best save, but it worked in a pinch. Goodness knows I wasn’t going to tell anyone else the real reason.

  There was a nice leisurely interval where we were able to sip the excellent coffee (after a while, the waiter got a clue and brought me my own little insulated carafe), before the band started tuning up in preparation of the evening’s festivities. I let Red know I wanted to make a trip to the restroom, when Melody, the woman sitting to the left of Bas, offered to accompany me, and help freshen my lipstick. I was happy to have the help.