New Glasses

A tale of perception.

“Whoosh……………..Whooooooosshhhhhhhhhhhh.”

 

I shot awake with a start, roused from my sweet sleep by my new, “gently-awakening” alarm clock.  What was supposed to be the soothing sounds of breaking ocean waves, however, sounded more like one of those in-between, not-quite-right radio stations that you used to hear intermittently as you manually tuned your radio’s dial radio but that had, since the advent of digital tuners, been identified by odd numbers like “87.9” and “98.3.”  At any rate, it was terribly annoying and not my favorite way to greet the coming day.  I grumpily reached over and slammed the “Alarm Off” button, noting that I had not changed the alarm setting from my “9 to 5”, work-week time to my Saturday-morning, sleep-in mode.  Consequently, I was fully awake at 6:15am on the first day of my weekend.  While I could have stayed in bed and attempted to go back to sleep, I remembered that I was supposed to pick up my new glasses at 9:00am.  I had gone for an updated eye exam last week and was informed by my optometrist that I had developed astigmatism.  The implications, she reported, were that I would have to obtain special glasses to correct the problem.  I was able to choose my new frames at that time, but was told that I would have to pick up my glasses at a workshop downtown that would be preparing the lenses, placing them, and adjusting the final product to fit my face.  I decided to get up a little early so I could get some things done before my appointment. 

 

Climbing out of bed, I pulled on some shorts and a t-shirt, slipped on my running shoes, and walked to the living room to stretch briefly before taking a short jog.  Placing my hands on my knees, I bent forward and reached my head towards the ground.  As I did so, my Boston Terrier Petey, who was a late riser and had stayed behind in bed, sped into the room and, excited about my slight flurry of morning activity, jumped directly into the side of my head with his sharp fingernails. 

 

“Damn it, Petey!” I yelled, feeling my scalp for possible blood, then realizing that was a little dramatic and probably unnecessary, as he had barely scratched me.  “Watch where the hell you’re going,” I admonished him, as if he could understand English.  At the sound of my hollering, Petey immediately put his head to the ground and scurried into the other room.  “Serves him right,” I thought as I finished stretching and headed out the front door. 

 

Once outside, I headed down my street toward the park that bordered my neighborhood on one side and had a one-mile track that wrapped around a lake.  Hitting the paved track, I picked up my pace a bit and allowed myself to take in my surroundings, my body hitting its natural rhythm.  Two elderly people were walking side-by-side, effectively blocking the path approximately thirty yards in front of me.  They did not move out of the way as I approached them, as per the customary etiquette.  I almost ran them down in my obstinate attempt to make them part ways and let me through.  Instead, I jumped off the path, jogged a few steps, and hit the track again about ten feet in front of the couple, shooting them an irritated glance before I sped up again.  I could see that they were indeed a couple, an elderly man and woman who, apparently, needed schooling in proper walking/jogging manners.  I resumed my run and finished two laps quickly, heading back down the road that led to my house. 

 

Passing through the front door, I plodded to the rear of the house and let Petey out into the backyard.  I grabbed a shower and made myself some toast, which I washed down with a protein shake.  I laced up my boots, let Petey back inside, and placed him in his crate, where he spent his downtime while I was out.  He gave me a pitiful look as I grabbed my keys and wallet and exited into the garage. 

 

Inside the garage, I climbed behind the wheel of my silver, Toyota 4-Runner, and backed out into the street.  Cruising past my neighbors’ homes, I fiddled with my iPod, complete with FM stereo transmitter, and chose a playlist.  The first song, Zero 7’s “In the Waiting Line,” faded in and I kicked back, settling in for the thirty-minute drive to the downtown area.  As I drove the reception on my iPod’s transmitter kept fading in-and-out, so that each song would become fuzzy, clear up for a minute, and then become scratchy again.  I finally, and forcibly, jammed in the power button on my stereo.  “Why can’t that damn thing ever work right?” I pondered.  “I certainly paid enough money for it.”  I drove the rest of the way in angry silence.

 

I was not more than five minutes from my destination when I hit a dead stop.  Traffic was backed up as far as I could see, something unheard-of on Highway 44 even during weekday, rush-hour traffic.  I laid on my horn, frustrated that I would likely be late for my appointment and would end up having to wait even longer.  I realized that my honking likely wouldn’t change the situation, but it seemed to be the only vocal outlet for my frustration.  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the cars in front of me began to move at a snail’s pace, gradually speeding up and approaching the speed limit.  I remember being aggravated that my exit came before I could identify the source of the hold-up, which was down the road a bit.

 

When I pulled up to the address of the workshop, I was about a half-hour late and thoroughly steamed.  I jumped out of my truck and began to walk hurriedly toward the store.  As I approached the sidewalk, an elderly man emerged from the storefront next-door to the workshop and headed in my direction. 

 

“Excuse me, young man,” he started.

 

Turning to face him, I dismissively stated, “Sorry old-timer, I got an appointment and I’m late.”  I spun away from him, but was surprised and agitated to hear him continue.

 

“You’re not gonna get into that shop right now,” the old man stated, matter-of-factly.

 

“Oh yeah, and why’s that?” I shot back, venomously.

 

“Jerry just left a few minutes ago.  Asked me to keep an eye out for any customers so I could tell them he’ll be back at ten o’clock.  That’s 10:00am, not 10:00pm, mind you,” the man explained.

 

“Well I didn’t figure he’d want me to wait twelve hours,” I sarcastically replied.

 

“No, I guess that’d be foolish.  Why don’t you come wait in my store?” the old man offered.  “I got a television and we could watch some college football.  Business is actually really slow and it gets kind-of lonely over here.  I could use the company.  It’s only for half an hour.”

 

I was completely frustrated, but decided that watching football beat sitting in my truck.  “Alright,” I stated, as if placating the man.  “I’ll come in for a little bit until, what’s his name?”

 

“Jerry.”

 

“Yeah, until Jerry gets back.”  I started in the old man’s direction and he turned to lead me toward his store.

 

“So what do you sell in there?” I queried.

 

“Shoes, young man.  But not just any shoes, mind you,” the man promised, in an apparent attempt to peak my curiosity.  I decided to play along.

 

“What kind of shoes do you sell, then?”

 

“The finest kind.  Tailor-made shoes crafted from Italian leather, each pair made specifically for the customer.  It’s a lost art, really,” he went on, “not many people do it anymore.  At least, not for prices the common man can afford.”

 

“I guess they must be pretty expensive?” I bantered, making small talk to pass the time.

 

The old man grasped the worn, brass door-handle with one wrinkled hand and pushed it open.  The flaking, beige paint on the shop’s door reminded me of a week-old sunburn that had begun to peel.  One of those annoying customer alert bells sounded. 

 

“Come on in,” he offered.

 

I stepped into the small store and was immediately overtaken by the pleasant smell of fresh leather.  The room was not very large, but exuded the kind of character that was usually missing from chain stores.  There were only three or four shoes and a few boots occupying various ledges on the display wall.  Various slats on which different visual presentations could be arranged occupied the considerable wall space between the products.  The room had a dark, hardwood floor that was lightly sprinkled with dust and lint.  A luxurious black leather bench sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by several measurement instruments strewn about the floor.  A worn, matching chair sat in the corner of the room facing the street, as if the old man liked to sit there and people-watch.  The rear corner housed two smaller chairs in front of a small television that was precariously propped upon two stacked milk crates.  The store was mildly disorderly, but in a comfortable and uncluttered way.  The old man noticed me staring at the shoes and boots on the meager display wall. 

 

“Models,” the man explained.  “You see, in a modern shoe store they have tens to hundreds of shoes displayed in the storefront.  Since I make my own shoes, I only have to display a few examples to give people an idea of what I can do for them.”

 

“And people pay you to make their shoes?”

 

“Of course they do.  How do you think I stay in business, sonny?” the man stated.  Then, eyeing me up and down as if he had just been struck by divine-inspiration, the man slyly asked, “Say, have you ever been fitted for a custom-made pair of shoes?”

 

“No.  I mean, look, I didn’t come in here to buy anything.  You offered to let me watch some football while I waited for your neighbor to come back,” I reminded him, gesturing toward the small color television in the far corner of the shop.

 

“I’m not trying to sell you anything, kid.  I just asked if you’d ever been fitted for a pair of shoes.  Fitting is a process that is really quite fascinating.  I could fit you just to give you an idea what I do,” the man said. 

 

“And then you try to tell me how comfortable the shoes would be, and how I wouldn’t be sorry if I just purchased a pair.  Yeah, I know how it works, and I’m not interested,” I replied.  “Look, I’ll just…”

 

“For the last time, I’m not trying to sell you anything.  I’m not a young man anymore, if you hadn’t noticed, and my skills may have deteriorated a bit as I’ve gotten older and fewer people are buying my product.  You would be doing me a great favor if you let me perform a fitting on you, and I promise I won’t sell you anything no matter how hard you beg,” he grinned.

 

“Just a fitting.  No sales pitch, right?” I asked.

 

“You got it, kid,” the man stated, looking rather grateful.

 

For the next twenty minutes, the man took all kinds of measurements with the careful, precise manner of a professional craftsman.  Once he began, I have to admit that the process intrigued me.  He appeared to be very skilled and worked with an almost Zen-like concentration.  We made a little more small talk as he worked, and I softened up a bit.  As he was finishing, I contritely stated, “Look sir, I’m sorry if I was impolite earlier.  I had a really bad morning and was late for my appointment next door, and then the guy wasn’t there.  I guess what I’m trying to say is thank you for letting me come into your store and helping me pass the time.”

 

The man stood up and removed his hat, placing it over his heart.  “Young man,” he solemnly started, “it has been an absolute pleasure to have you here.  I must confess, I haven’t been truthful with you.  You see, I actually closed the business about a year ago.  Like I said, just not enough people are having shoes custom-made anymore.  But I own the building, and I live upstairs, so I come down and hang around the shop during the day so I can watch the people on the street.  I love to make shoes, and it gave me a good living for many years, but my true love was always interacting with the people who came into my store.  Always, young man, always take time with people and give them your attention.  Everyone is unique, sonny, and everyone can teach you something.  Don’t you forget that.”

 

“I won’t, sir.  I’m really sorry to hear that your store went under,” I offered.

 

The man waved his hand at me dismissively.  “Ah, it was just time,” he stated.  Just then he looked over my shoulder and out the large front window.  I turned to see a man emerging from a red pickup truck that had just pulled up behind the Toyota.

 

“That’d be Jerry,” the man explained.  “You better get over there for your appointment.”

 

“I will, sir, and thanks again for your hospitality,” I was surprised to hear myself say.

 

“Anytime.  I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do.  I got enough leather and supplies left that I could make you a real special pair of shoes, something kind of contemporary but well-made.  It’d give me something to do and it wouldn’t cost you anything,” the man promised.

 

“I couldn’t let you do that.”

 

“Nonsense, kid.  You don’t have to let me, I’m gonna make them whether you come back or not.  I already got your measurements, and I’ll have ‘em done in about a week.  You feel free to come on back and pick them up whenever.”

 

“Well, I guess that’d be okay, if you’re sure it’s no trouble,” I replied.

 

“None at all, and you’d be doing me a favor.  Get out of here, I’ll see you around sometime,” the man gruffly rambled.

 

“Okay, see you in a few weeks then, I guess,” I stated, not really sure if I would or not.  I turned and exited the store.

 

I walked the short fifteen-foot stretch of sidewalk and pushed open the door to Jerry’s workshop.  In contrast to the shoe store, Jerry’s shop was messy and filled with clutter, from parts of eyeglass frames to various tools covering the surface of nearly every counter and table.  The dingy tile floor and haphazard display gave me the feeling that I was standing in the workshop and that this was not actually a store in the strictest sense of the word.  Jerry stood near a glass counter that held a mirror and a few tiny, screwdriver-looking instruments.  He gave me a big smile.

 

“I see you met Emmett,” Jerry stated.  “He’s a good old guy, best neighbor you could ask for, really.”

 

“Yeah, he seemed like a really nice guy,” I said.  “He fit me for a pair of shoes, even though I didn’t want any.”

 

Jerry slapped his leg and erupted in great, uproarious laughter, as if I’d just told him a hilarious joke.

 

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

 

“Nothing, nothing, just that old boy’s got a way of drawing people in there.  You know he doesn’t even sell shoes anymore?”

 

“He said he closed his shop last year.”

 

“Yup, he sure did,” Jerry offered, continuing, “but it’s the strangest thing.  He’s still got people in-and-out of there like they’re regular customers.  People come to see him all the time.  Some of them hang around all day.  Hell, Emmett and I eat lunch together all the time.”

 

“People must like him, I guess,” I wondered aloud.

 

“Well he’s a good man.  He even helps me out sometimes.  He’s pretty good assembling things, I guess from all those years spent taking measurements, cutting leather, sewing, and all that stuff.  He’s actually the one who put your pair of glasses together,” Jerry said.

 

“Really?” I asked, kind of surprised.  “I thought you had to have some kind of special…”

 

“Special training?  Like a craft?  Yeah, you do to make the lenses, but not to place them in the frame.  Anyone can be shown how to do that, provided they have a little manual dexterity.”

 

“That comes as a shock,” I responded.

 

“Shouldn’t, really,” Jerry mused.  “And I’ll tell you what else.  Not only have I never had a complaint about a pair of glasses constructed by Emmett, I’ve had people call me and rave about them.  Always the ones Emmett put together, though.  See, I put out a little survey to every customer and invite them to contact me with any comments or questions.”  Looking at the floor, distractedly, Jerry continued, “people write strange things every now and again, like that their lives had changed or something.  You’d think we were selling ‘em religion.  Anyways, let’s try on those glasses.”

 

Jerry pulled an eyeglass case from a drawer in the counter and folded it open, producing my new spectacles.  He handed them to me and motioned toward the mirror.  I put them on and had a look.  They looked great and felt perfect.

 

“Nice job,” I commended Jerry.

 

“Thank you very much, happy to oblige.  I believe you already paid for those at the time of your eye exam?”

 

“Oh, yeah.  We should be square,” I acknowledged.

 

“Just let me know if you have any problems or need an adjustment,” Jerry offered, handing me a small, self-addressed and stamped envelope.  It was his survey.  “Should be seeing things better in no time,” he stated, giving me a wink.

 

“Um, thanks,” was all I could say.  I turned and exited the store.

 

As I strolled to my truck, I couldn’t help but look over my shoulder at Emmett’s shop, wondering why he hadn’t told me his name while I was there.  Come to think of it, he hadn’t asked mine either.  Emmett stood by his door, smiling and waving at me.  I waved back as I got into my truck.

 

“What a couple of strange old guys,” I thought as I pulled into gear and drove off, leaving them in my rearview mirror.  I flipped on my stereo just in time to hear, “…tractor-trailer jackknifed on west-bound Highway 44 this morning, causing a multi-vehicle collision that took the lives of a local family.  The driver of the truck was rushed to the hospital.  No further information on his condition.  The incident caused an unusual traffic jam just east of downtown, stopping traffic to a halt for more than a mile…” I clicked off the radio, stunned as I realized what was being said.  I had been right there, in that traffic jam, not more than one hour ago.  “Could it have only been an hour?” I wondered in amazement.  It seemed like much longer.  I got goose bumps just thinking about the incident, how I’d had no idea that people were fighting for their lives a mile from where I sat, angrily honking my horn.  I was so uncharacteristically overcome by emotion, I had to pull the truck to the side of the road and take a deep breath.  Almost out of habit, and not any virtue, I mentally said a quick prayer for all those involved in the accident. 

 

I pulled back onto the road and began to head home, cruising just under the speed limit.  I grabbed my iPod and turned it on, placing it on shuffle.  Soon I was humming along to “Champagne Supernova” by Oasis.  There was a little static in the music, but I didn’t mind and kept humming along. 

 

As I pulled into my neighborhood, I cruised past the park where I had jogged earlier.  There, on a bench overlooking the park’s lake, sat the elderly couple that had been walking the track earlier.  They reclined contentedly, smiling at one another and obviously enjoying the day.  I found myself envying them.  They both looked so happy.  I started to wonder when was the last time I had relaxed and just enjoyed the people in my life.  I was usually busy working, exercising, running errands, and any number of things.  I realized that I didn’t really even know much about the people who worked with me.  I usually sat in my office and ate lunch alone.  With that thought lingering, I pulled into my driveway.

 

As I placed my key in the front door, I could hear Petey’s familiar barking.  “He is so loud!” I thought as I raced to open the door to his crate, anxious for him to be quiet.  As he darted out of his cage, he took two quick laps around the living room and ran to where I was sitting on the floor, next to his open crate.  He was panting and, for the life of me, I couldn’t dismiss the silly notion that he was grinning at me.  As if to confirm my suspicions, he inched closer and licked me on the cheek, nuzzling into my neck.

 

What happened next I still cannot explain, and am not sure it needs explaining.  It felt as though my heart exploded and I could feel every bit of love, adoration, and compassion coming towards me from Petey, from Emmett, from the elderly couple, and from all the people out there in the world with whom I’d ever spent time, or had a relationship.  Hot, stinging tears ran down my face.  I pulled off my glasses and sobbed as I felt a barrier inside me break.  My silly Boston terrier went on grinning and licked the salty tears from my cheeks.  I started laughing and let him, grabbing him and hugging him.

 

The next few days were amazing.  Some colleagues were going out for lunch one day and, as a gesture, invited me, knowing that I would have some excuse to stay behind.  I accepted and had a great time, finding out that they didn’t even discuss work over lunch.  I found out that Stacey, one of our secretaries, had two children, a boy and a girl, ages four and six.  Tommy, another co-worker, also loved basketball and invited me to a weekly game he attended at the local YMCA.  Again, I accepted.  I also spoke with one of our account managers who told me she had a friend she’d like me to meet, thinking we might hit it off.  I learned more about my coworkers in that one day than I had in the three previous years.  More than that, I became one of them.  My loneliness began to melt away rather quickly.  And every day when I came home, I sat for a long while and played with Petey, allowing him to love me as he had been trying to do all along.

 

A few days later, I checked my mail and found a small, unfamiliar envelope with my name and address handwritten on the front.  There was no return address.  I opened it and pulled out a small piece of what felt like construction paper.  Unfolding it, I flipped on the overhead light and placed the note flat on the kitchen table.  On the paper, simply scribbled in pencil, was the following statement:

 

“Dear Chris,

Hope you like the new glasses.  You should be seeing things much better these days. 

Sincerely,

Jerry and Emmett

 

P.S. – Come back sometime and pick up your shoes.”

 

The End

-CV

Reviews

[Kasey Jones]

This is a truly inspiring story. The details and his train of thought really show the narrator's character and the changes he experiences. Great, thorough story.
By the way, I love the music that this character listens to!