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16 – Beautifully Perpendicular

The wood deck squeaked under his feet, from the dampness and not from the boards being loose.  It was more difficult to find the steps down, because at first it felt like one of the many small gaps between the planks.  When he thought he might be close to the edge, he felt ahead of himself by gently tapping his toe until he felt the open space.  It only took him two tries—he was off by almost a meter.

The sound outside was less comforting than he’d imagined it would be.

He didn’t hear anything unexpected or unnatural.  The crickets were everywhere, but louder to his left where they were closer, and quieter ahead of him.  The breeze in the trees, seemingly everywhere as well, but only to his left was it occasionally punctuated by the creak of a branch.  The yard smelled like the yard.  The trees smelled like the trees.

Absolutely nothing seemed amiss.  It was like any other night out on the back deck, except he was wearing a blindfold and cradling a gun in his hands.

If the drop was on schedule, he knew almost exactly what time it was within a few minutes.  He tried to remember if he regularly heard anything else out here this time of night, anything man-made.  The problem, he concluded, is you’re never in the yard this time of night.  There were always sounds, even late: cars on the street out front, kids playing a few houses down, the occasional airliner.  But this was later than he was usually up.

The grass was long, but that was understandable.  It was wet, too, though whether from rain or dew, he didn’t know.  In stepping off the deck he had oriented himself facing straight back into the back yard.  Turning 90 degrees to his right from there was not challenging.  He figured he would feel the edge of the driveway before anything—though if he hadn’t turned far enough, he’d miss the driveway and end up in the trees.  He kept that in the back of his mind.

The crickets, previously to his left and now behind him, seemed to fade away briefly before returning.  That didn’t alarm him.  His boots had been squeaking on the deck and he probably stepped down onto the grass hard enough to disturb them.  They returned in full force before he started moving.

Creeping across the grass was far simpler than navigating his house, however he didn’t realize his yard was so lumpy until now.  Almost every second or third step seemed to threaten to throw him off-balance.

As he moved, he heard the crickets grow louder in front of him, and shortly he felt the pavement under his boot.  He felt for the edge, guiding him into another 90-degree turn.

This part was considerably more tricky.  The driveway was flat, smooth, and empty.  But that meant it was devoid of any landmarks if he walked in the wrong place, or in the wrong direction.

He paused where he stood, just after stepping off the grass.  It seemed absurd, getting lost in your own yard—not even in the woods, he thought, in the yard.  If he got sufficiently disoriented, if he didn’t track his turns and his cardinal directions carefully, he’d end up wandering around the property until something put him out of his misery.

He oriented himself toward the street, far at the end of the driveway.  He felt the edge of the pavement, knew exactly what direction he was facing and what was ahead of him.  The issue was, if he was off by as little as five degrees, he’d miss where he wanted to turn and not know it until he was stepping on grass again.  All he’d be able to do in that case was turn around and ping-pong back and forth between the grass and the pavement until he thought he knew where he was again.

There was a small lump over on this corner of the driveway, a single blemish where the rare frost had pushed up a rock or something.  It was somewhere vaguely near him, closer to this long edge than the shorter edge behind him.  He took a tentative step diagonally to his forward-left, hoping to feel the slight rise.  He didn’t.  He stepped back, afraid to stray too far.

He tried more forward than left, and didn’t feel it either.  He tried more left than forward.  Nothing.

He was afraid of moving too awkwardly—more than he already was—because if he lost his balance and fell down he would almost certainly lose his orientation.  Tripping was less of a danger inside the house than it was out here, with the lack of landmarks.

If I could see, he thought, I could plant one foot here on the edge and reach with my left.

…If you could see, you wouldn’t be feeling your way around your own driveway.

He took a tentative step forward, at least confident he was aligned with the long axis of the driveway.  It was easier than walking on the grass.

His ears, which he’d been relying on so heavily, offered a clue after a few more steps.  Something to his right.  He turned his head, scanning with his ears.  Crickets, louder to his left, quieter to the front.  Weirdly loud to his right, but…

The garage.

He took a careful step to his right, reaching out with his hand.  Another step, and then he felt it.  The roll-up door: cool, damp, beautifully perpendicular to the driveway.  A white, aluminum-skinned lifeline.