Pocket Full of Mumbles

Pocket Full of Mumbles (full story)

I collect the words unheard. I pluck them from the air, rescue them from gutters, retrieve them from branches—they don’t vibrate for long after the words are spoken. I often wonder if I weren’t Deaf whether I’d hear them. I gather them on my morning walk, along with bottles and cans from recycling bins, and again after supper at St. Joseph’s soup kitchen.

I dodge the broken glass while pushing my cart along Seventh Avenue. The front left wheel wobbles and shimmies. It jerks off course when I run over some twisted metal from a wreck. I strong-arm it back on course. Harold waves at me from the next block. He can usually hear me coming.

A flicker in the bushes catches my attention. I stop, bending closer to peer into the plant along the sidewalk. The phrase is easy to spot; I know what to look for. The vibration flutters in the bush like a trapped butterfly. Carefully, I ease the vibration from its hiding place until it merges onto the string. It quivers for a moment, I’m unsure what it’s saying—sometimes the common ones are easy to decipher, but this one’s weak and faint.

It takes a special eye to see them. I cut notches along the top of a tin and thread horsehair I’d salvaged from broken instrument bows or filched from the stables when I participate in the Homeless to Work program. I observe my latest find for clues as to its message.

Vibrations tremble for hours, sometimes a few days before they fade. I love you has a distinct vibration—quick, long, quick—but so does I hate you. I pay close attention to the sharpness of the visual tone.

Harold meets me at the corner. He’s wearing a poncho he bought from me, burnt-orange and woven with broken promises. He pats my arm, alerting me that he’s about to talk, so I watch his lips. You got a good one? he asks.

I nod and hold the tin out to him.

He inches closer, taking care not to touch it. He straightens, facing me. Oh, that’s special, Maggie Mae.

What’s it saying? I sign, but Howard looks away and pretends he didn’t see my hands. He doesn’t know sign. I point to the tin and then to my ear.

He glances at me. A grin builds on his face until he’s shaking from holding in his giggle. It’s a good one. Different. It’s sorrow, hope, wishes, and goodnights all in one. Harold can’t hear the exact message, just the intent. He once told me that maybe it’s part of his power from his extra chromosome.

He unfolds a few blankets on my cart and displays them on the park bench. You got a nice selection today. A nice selection.

I weave the best phrases into blankets or sweaters and it doesn’t seem to matter. Negative or positive, the merchandise woven with phrases sells best at the farmers’ market. They say these pleas fall on Deaf ears. It’s poetic irony that I’m the only one who listens.

I pull out a few unfinished projects, hunting for a place to weave my newest find. It doesn’t seem to fit on a tapestry of prayers, or a rug filled with apologies.

Harold tugs on my arm. I catch his lips moving, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. He notices and repeats, his mouth moving slower. You can’t use that one. It’s special.

I glare at him. What does he mean? These are my phrases, my finds. If people wanted them they wouldn’t be so careless and listen. I continue to weave the phrase into the blanket, but it doesn’t work. The ends fray.

Harold’s eyes widen, his mouth a perfect “O” of shock. It don’t want to go. It don’t match. Maybe this is the first one you gotta return.

I’ve never returned any of them. It’s the one thing that brings me money. It’s the one thing that connects me to the world of the hearing.

I flap my arms and shoo him away, fed up with his morals. He swats at my hands like I’m an annoying bug, but leaves, shooting me expressions of disbelief. I thread the vibrating phrase back into the tin. It quivers like a wounded animal. I’ll find a place for it tonight.