As a child, my eye doctor told me I needed glasses. I wasn’t happy with his diagnosis. At school, other
kids made fun of me for wearing them. Therefore, whenever possible, I avoided
doing so.
However, growing up might have been easier, if I was
able to adjust to living in an
. . .
Eyeglass World
The bell rang, announcing the beginning of
the school day. I closed my locker. I was about to turn and head for my
sixth-grade classroom, when a voice shouted, “Hey, four-eyes!”
I didn’t turn around and didn’t respond,
but I knew who it was. Omar Tucker’s voice was unmistakable.
“Didn’t you hear me, nerd?” he yelled.
I wanted to run, but two other bullies,
Jesse Sampson and Mica Fabian approached—pointing at me and singing, “Nerdy
birdy, you’re so wordy. Gonna stick your face in mud and get your glasses
dirty.”
I bent my head down, so I wouldn’t have to
make eye contact and attempted to shuffle past them. As I did, Mica gave me a
shoulder bump, so hard it almost knocked me over.
Regaining my balance, I made my way down
the hall and entered my classroom, leaving the “crap ass jerks” laughing
hysterically. Another wonderful day had begun.
This experience wasn’t something new. I got
my first pair of horn-rimmed glasses when I was six. I hated them. But the alternative,
my father said, was going blind. So I wore them. And who picked on me? That’s
right, Omar, Jesse, and Mica.
Last year was a turning point in my life,
or so I thought. Mrs. Downing, my fifth grade teacher, assigned an in-class art
project, where we had to create a collage. I had junk to paste on a large piece
of cardstock paper spread all over my desk. I’d removed my glasses to work on
the project. When I cleaned off my desk at the end of the day, they had disappeared.
I searched the top section of the large trash bin in the back of the classroom,
where we were told to dispose of our garbage, but they weren’t there. I was
delighted they were gone, but dreaded going home to tell Dad.
When I got home, Dad looked at me with a
weird expression on his face. “Where are your glasses, Brady?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“Well, tomorrow, you will make sure to find
them.”
When I entered my classroom the next day, I
walked to my desk. There, my “additional two eyes” sat propped up, ready to be worn.
I found out, later in the day, the custodian had discovered them at the bottom
of the trashcan when he emptied it. He didn’t have to think twice about whose
they were. They’d become my trademark.
Sixth grade got worse as the year
progressed. After school one afternoon, I mounted my bike and took a shortcut
home through a back ally behind some stores. What I didn’t realize was that I
was being followed.
A loud, booming voice screamed, “Where’re
you going, geek?”
Turning my head, I saw Jesse and Mica, on
their bikes behind me. Surprised, I dismounted mine. Now standing beside their
bikes, Mica looked at Jesse and said, “Let’s give the creep two big, black
eyes.”
“Let’s make it two ‘broken-glass eyes’ and
two black ones,” Jesse declared, laughing.
They seemed to be getting a lot of pleasure
from taunting me. I knew what I had to do—get out of the ally. However, when I
turned to get back on my bike, I noticed a huge truck I hadn’t seen before
blocking my exit route. Now what? I
thought.
I needed to come up with a getaway plan
quickly or be beaten to a pulp. I stared at the enemy walking toward me with
their fists clenched. Then I remembered what my doctor had told me at my
physical exam a couple of weeks earlier. He said, “Brady, you’re built like a professional
boxer. Look at your bulging muscles.”
I ripped off my shirt, held my arms up so
my muscles rose like mountains on them, closed my fists, and glared at Mica and
Jesse, with my menacing “four eyes.” To my amazement they turned, ran back to
their bikes, and took off, like the cowards they were.
The rest of sixth grade was uneventful. I
still hated my glasses, but the bullies left me alone. At home, things didn’t
change. Dad still insisted I wear them. “Brady, you’ve got to be strong. The
glasses are part of the man you will become. They will help you to succeed in
life.”
“But they make me look like a nerd,” I
stated.
“Only if you want them too.”
“But . . .”
“No more buts. Grow up and see the world clearly
through your lenses.”
I wasn’t going to win, so I just said,
“Okay.”
That night, as I got ready for bed, I stood
in front of the bathroom mirror, with my glasses on, and flexed my muscles. The
muscles looked good, but the glasses were another story.
I placed them on the nightstand, crawled
into bed, and shut off the light. “Maybe tomorrow will be a better day,” I
murmured. I drifted off into a peaceful sleep and then . . .
“Brady, do you want to see your future?” a
soft-spoken voice asked.
“Huh, what are you talking about?”
“Put on your glasses and you’ll see.”
“It’s the middle of the night? I’ve got to
be up early for my dental appointment tomorrow. Just let me sleep. This is just
a dream anyway. Isn’t it?”
“Maybe. But don’t you want to see your
future?”
“My future. I’ll be in seventh grade next
fall.”
“You’re being shortsighted.”
“I know. That’s why I have to wear
glasses.”
“It’s more than that. What do you want to
be when you grow up?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
“Do you want me to show you?”
“This is ridiculous. If I say yes, will you
go away?”
“I’ll never go away, but I’ll consider
leaving you alone for awhile.”
I reached over and grabbed my glasses off
the nightstand and slid them up on my nose and looked for the person talking to
me. But what I saw blew me away.
A much older me, with glasses firmly in
place, stood behind a podium, as about forty newspaper reporters yelled at him.
“Governor Tate, who have you chosen to lead the Attorney General’s Statewide
Organized Crime Task Force?”
Governor?
Who, me? Organized Crime Task Force? What’s this all about? I thought.
Then my older self spoke, with conviction, “I
have given this considerable thought and have selected three of the most
respected law enforcement professionals in the state to serve together in this
capacity. It is my honor to introduce . . . Omar Tucker, Jesse Sampson, and
Mica Fabian.”
My glasses slipped off my nose, as I jumped
out of bed, gasping for breath. Now realizing what the future had in store for
me, I shook my head and muttered, “That can’t be true . . . Can it?”
Copyright © 2022 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.
