21 Baker Street
Adulthood:
It was four years after I graduated college when I finally met the girl of my dreams in person. I was living at home for a while, waiting for my apartment on the opposite side of town to be repaired, and I had gone for a walk when I bumped into her on the sidewalk. She smiled, murmured hello, and looked down at my whiteboard. She smiled, her confusion written all over her face, and started to point, to ask a question. I flushed and grimaced and ignored her, walking back into my house. I felt like there was the weight of the world on my shoulders. I wanted to cry and scream and dammit, I wanted to talk. I wanted to sing, I wanted people to hear me. The realization that I didn’t remember the sound of my own voice hit me like a ton of bricks. Not even bothering to take off my snowy coat, I sank down on the floor by the door, hoping against hope that my parents didn’t come around the corner.
They didn’t, and after a while, I composed myself enough to go upstairs and change. After David Bowie’s Queen Bitch had played exactly three times, the doorbell rang. I rolled my eyes and tried to yell “someone get the door!” but it didn’t work. No one heard me. I still couldn’t talk. After two more rings, I grabbed my whiteboard and scribbled out “yes, how can I help you?” and ran downstairs, looking through the peephole.
The girl next door was standing there.
My heart started racing and my palms got all sweaty and I considered trying to remain perfectly still and quiet until she went away. But after 27 years of waiting, waiting to speak, waiting to be heard, waiting to kiss that girl next door, I got tired of waiting. I flung the door open, and there the girl stood, her own whiteboard in hand. I felt my eyebrows knit together, and I tried to smile at her as she waved shyly. A cold blast of wind hit us, and she shivered, and I vaguely remember motioning for her to come in. She did, and we sat down on the chairs in the foyer, looking at each other. Eventually, I popped the cap off my marker and wrote “Why are you here?”
She smiled, and said, in a sweet, slow voice, “I wanted to come over and say hello.”
My mood immediately darkened. Did she have the whiteboard to mock me? She could talk. Why would she need it if she could talk?
“Why do you have a whiteboard?” I scribbled furiously
She shrugged.
“Why do you have a whiteboard?” she said, sitting back and crossing her short, skinny legs.
“I can’t talk. I’m mute. Disabled. Deformed.” I scratched, holding up the whiteboard for her to see.
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry to see that.”
I was still puzzled. “Okay, I answered your question, you answer mine. Why do you have a whiteboard?”
She smiled. “Well, I carry it for people to use if they don’t have one of their own. I was so excited to see that you had one.”
I didn’t smile.
“Why do you need people to have one?” I scrawled in all caps. She laughed, a bright, clean laugh.
“I can’t hear. I’m deaf. Disabled. Deformed. As you so elegantly put it. I haven’t heard anyone speak since I was ten years old. It’s a miracle that I still can talk, even though I mess things up sometimes,” she said. I noticed her strange lisp for the first time and felt my eyes grow wide.
“You can’t hear?”
“I can’t hear,” she said. Picking up her whiteboard, she uncapped her own marker and started writing. After a moment, she turned her whiteboard around, smiling.
It said “FRIENDS?” written big, in childish hot pink letters. I erased everything from my board and wrote, slowly, carefully, “FRIENDS..”
And there, for the first time in 27 years, in that house on 21 Baker Street, I didn’t miss my voice one bit.
They didn’t, and after a while, I composed myself enough to go upstairs and change. After David Bowie’s Queen Bitch had played exactly three times, the doorbell rang. I rolled my eyes and tried to yell “someone get the door!” but it didn’t work. No one heard me. I still couldn’t talk. After two more rings, I grabbed my whiteboard and scribbled out “yes, how can I help you?” and ran downstairs, looking through the peephole.
The girl next door was standing there.
My heart started racing and my palms got all sweaty and I considered trying to remain perfectly still and quiet until she went away. But after 27 years of waiting, waiting to speak, waiting to be heard, waiting to kiss that girl next door, I got tired of waiting. I flung the door open, and there the girl stood, her own whiteboard in hand. I felt my eyebrows knit together, and I tried to smile at her as she waved shyly. A cold blast of wind hit us, and she shivered, and I vaguely remember motioning for her to come in. She did, and we sat down on the chairs in the foyer, looking at each other. Eventually, I popped the cap off my marker and wrote “Why are you here?”
She smiled, and said, in a sweet, slow voice, “I wanted to come over and say hello.”
My mood immediately darkened. Did she have the whiteboard to mock me? She could talk. Why would she need it if she could talk?
“Why do you have a whiteboard?” I scribbled furiously
She shrugged.
“Why do you have a whiteboard?” she said, sitting back and crossing her short, skinny legs.
“I can’t talk. I’m mute. Disabled. Deformed.” I scratched, holding up the whiteboard for her to see.
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry to see that.”
I was still puzzled. “Okay, I answered your question, you answer mine. Why do you have a whiteboard?”
She smiled. “Well, I carry it for people to use if they don’t have one of their own. I was so excited to see that you had one.”
I didn’t smile.
“Why do you need people to have one?” I scrawled in all caps. She laughed, a bright, clean laugh.
“I can’t hear. I’m deaf. Disabled. Deformed. As you so elegantly put it. I haven’t heard anyone speak since I was ten years old. It’s a miracle that I still can talk, even though I mess things up sometimes,” she said. I noticed her strange lisp for the first time and felt my eyes grow wide.
“You can’t hear?”
“I can’t hear,” she said. Picking up her whiteboard, she uncapped her own marker and started writing. After a moment, she turned her whiteboard around, smiling.
It said “FRIENDS?” written big, in childish hot pink letters. I erased everything from my board and wrote, slowly, carefully, “FRIENDS..”
And there, for the first time in 27 years, in that house on 21 Baker Street, I didn’t miss my voice one bit.