Recently we went and bought new glasses. We both a pair, kind of an early Christmas present. They had a great sale and I love getting new glasses. It is one of the few nods to vanity I have. New looks, clearer vision, at least cleaner vision, I always have the person clean and adjust my old glasses so my vision is better all around. Actually, I have five or six pair I can wear, I spend more time picking which glasses I’m going to wear than I do picking out a shirt.
We’ve been going to the same shop for several years now. It’s in a large department store in a huge mall. We can sneak in the back door, where there are few people and we always wear gloves and a face mask and use a generous amount of hand sanitizer. Safety first, you know.
Anyway, the woman working there has a strong accent, something that sounds Caribbean. She knows us by name, at least she knows my wife’s name, it’s her insurance, and she is the one who handles the monetary transaction. I’m just there to look good, I guess. She, the employee, is named Kindness, or Patience, or something delightful. She is a kind, friendly outgoing, charming woman.
My new glasses were amazing, bright, clear, unscratched, everything looked wonderful. Things actually looked better than they were, my new glasses made my life look more pleasant. The sky, even when it was overcast, looked sunny, nights were filled with stars, colors were sharp and vibrant. Everything looked fantastic. My face ached and was sore from smiling so much.
At work, though, things got strange. I work in an old building. It is four stories tall, narrow and deep, it is oddly inconsistent. Over the hundred and twenty years of it’s existence it has had at least two, possibly three additions, each one had a different appearance, uniquely consistent with the architectural habits of the period. It is an oddly incongruous building. Almost a victim of multiple personalities and various conflicting feelings run through the structure. I’ve seen the tension build and release, waves of pained differences swelling and collapsing, even with old, dirty scratched glasses.
Now, though, I can see the mounting crisis, ghosts of the past, different eras swirling into patterns of growing manifestations of anger and frustration. Out of the corner of my eye, right on the edge of my peripheral vision the specters of competing places in time coalescing into almost human forms only to vanish when I turned my gaze toward them.
They grew braver, more substantial, menacing, imposing with each passing day. Early last week while waiting for the elevator to take me to the first floor, and my daily liberation; quitting time. I saw one who welcomed my full gaze, he didn’t waver, or ripple, he stood, defiant, imposing, grinning at me with a violent smile and bright, shining black eyes, eyes that had no bottom, eyes that saw everything, and in which you could see everything. Those eyes reflected a lonely, sad, unforgiving place. He dragged his thumb across his throat.
I was locked into place, transfixed, unmoving, until the elevator door opened, I jumped on, as fast as I could, my finger jammed against the “Close Door” button, pushing it until I thought it would break, or collapse into the framework of the car. But, it was too slow, and he, it, jumped in with me, we wrestled to the floor. Locked into mortal battle, my life, my soul hung in the balance. I tried to bite him, close my fingers around his throat, turn him, push him against the wall, anything to keep him at bay.
My breath was ragged and my heart was pounding from the exertion and fear. I was sure I was going to die. The door opened and we rolled out. A group of employees was waiting and they looked in astonishment as we rolled past, tumbling down the stairs into the basement. Locked in combat we rolled, in slow, torturous plops, one step at a time. I felt the skin on my elbow scratch and scrape and I thought “I’d better put some antiseptic cream on that when I get home.” I guess you could say I was refusing to accept the situation.
Finally, when we hit the last step my glasses fell off. Just like that he disappeared, and I was laying in a heap, wracked with pain, dusty and bleeding from several places. One of my co-workers helped me up.
“Here’s your glasses,” he said.
“No, no thanks.” I replied.
I stopped at the store on my way home and asked Patience if she gave me the wrong prescription.
She looked at me, the bandaids, the bruises, the cobwebs stuck to my face and hair. And she held the glasses up to her face.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, these are for next year when things get bad.” She said, smiling.
Damnit, now I don’t have anything to look forward to.
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