***
1
When I was 27 years old, the U. S. government conferred upon me a Fulbright Teaching Fellowship to France. The award letter said that in order to formalize the Fulbright, I would need to pass several kinds of examination. These included an FBI background check (I wondered if they would discover the several meetings I had attended as an undergraduate of the American Socialist Party; I never knew… ) – and a rigorous series of physical exams.
Since I had not had any kind of physical since graduation from high school, I was glad to comply.
(Note: I don’t recall the FBI ever saying anything directly to me, but soon some friends and former professors and employers were congratulating me on my Fulbright, of which they had learned from J. Edgar Hoover… well, maybe not from him personally.)
I found a physician in my California graduate school town who would do the basic lab tests and an elaborate physical exam for a price I could fairly easily afford. But an eye exam was also required, and I could not immediately find an ophthalmologist.
In our next family phone call, my mother asked where I was in the Fulbright process. I casually mentioned my not yet having found an eye doctor, and my dad and mom suggested I get that exam in a few weeks when I was planning a brief visit back to our home in Texas. They would find the doctor and even pay for the examination. Who could say No to that?
My mother went on to mention that she thought the long-time family eye doctor, an imposing German man with a strong accent (as I remembered), was still in practice. This news was at first surprising, since Dr. O--------- had first started with us about 20 years before, and had seemed pretty old when I was only nine; but I was happy to leave Mom in charge and concentrate on making progress on my dissertation.
2
As a child, I had had two experiences with Dr. O---------: an initial exam when I was 7 or 8, because – as I recall it - my sister was being fitted for glasses. I had no vision problem at that time myself, but my parents – both of whom wore glasses, by the way – must have thought, Why not have Byron checked too?
When I was 10 or 11, I began having headaches, especially after going to a movie. That must have already happened at least a couple of times when I went downtown to the Queen Theatre to see what was no doubt a “B” movie and had to leave in the middle because my head hurt so. I called Mother to come pick me up, and she decided to take me in to have my eyes checked.
I didn’t know exactly what to expect since I had “passed” my first exam with flying colors. I was a little concerned, I remember, first because I didn’t like the headaches and hoped my little problem that would go away (soon) on its own and also because Dr. O--------- had scared me in the first visit a year or so earlier.
He was tall, big, cool, and he spoke loudly, decisively, with that strong Germanic accent. There was no chit-chat, not even with my mother. As a somewhat timid little fellow, I was anxious.
Dr. O--------- examined me, leaving my mother in the waiting room. I did my best, but found no way to reassure myself. And the final outcome was that I got glasses to wear while reading and, especially, when going to the movies.
I liked reading, and I liked going to the movies, so in itself that didn’t seem like a bad deal. I rather liked the way I looked too, behind the traditional horn-rims. On the other hand, as a kid who everyday wore blue jeans and a tee shirt, I had no convenient pocket where I could put the glasses. So I carried them in my right back pocket. It didn’t seem to be a problem when I sat down, so that was all right.
3
I was in the sixth grade. I don’t know whose idea it was originally, but a bunch of the kids in my class at W---------- School were signed up for ballroom dancing classes in a little second-floor studio a couple of blocks from school. We would troop over there once a week, girls in a bunch ahead and jostling, loud boys rambling along behind.
Foxtrot, waltz, rhumba, jitterbug, and even the tango – over the weeks, we learned them all. I rather liked dancing, but since the other guys made fun of it all and misbehaved now and then to show how superior they were to such a girlie thing, I kept my enjoyment private.
I don’t remember participating much in the good-natured pushing and shoving, but I didn’t have any trouble fitting in. After all, these were by and large the boys I played with everyday.
One day, shortly after we all had arrived, the guys were especially boisterous and were fooling around a little more vigorously than usual. Somebody had just learned the clever trick of having one buddy get down on all fours behind another so that the leader could give the victim a quick push and he would go crashing backwards to the floor. We had seen a demonstration or two at recess. Everyone thought it was really funny, and no one was in danger of getting hurt, so…
Well, that day waiting for the dance instructor and horsing around, one of my buddies decided it was my turn. It worked like a charm too, and I howled with laughter along with everybody else, as I just about flipped over backwards to the floor.
Yeah, that was fun… until I felt my glasses in my back pocket and had a sinking feeling. I managed to check for damage when no one was looking. One lens was completely smashed, and one earpiece was actually in two pieces.
I didn’t tell my mother, taking a wait-and-see approach. Luckily, the headaches never returned, even at the movies, so I didn’t feel the need to speak up. It seemed a long time later before Mother asked me where my glasses were. I explained that I didn’t need them anymore, so I was no longer even carrying them around. She seemed to think it was a good thing that my sight had improved, and that was that.
4
So, when I got to Texas those many years later, Mother had sure enough set up an appointment for me with the redoubtable Dr. O---------. Fine.
I drove to a new office in a shopping plaza, went through the preliminaries, and after a few minutes was escorted to a narrow, dark little room with a special chair with some impressive equipment hanging about. A young lab technician (with no German accent) entered and gave me the standard sort of exam of my eyesight using projected charts at the end of the room opposite my chair.
He was chatty and pleasant and when finished, said Dr. O--------- would be seeing me soon. After a few more minutes, I was escorted down the hall and into a well-appointed office. Again, I was informed that Dr. O--------- would be joining me soon.
It was an impressive office, with a nice deep carpet, built-in wooden bookshelves all around the walls, and a huge dark wooden desk, in front of which I was asked to sit to wait for the doctor. The hard seat was rather low compared to the massive desk, and I felt small as I waited.
It seemed a little longer than a few minutes. I was wondering if I would recognize Dr. O--------- after all those years; I couldn’t call to mind anything about his appearance except that he seemed tall and imposing. And I waited a little more.
Then, the door abruptly opened as Dr. O--------- entered and pulled the door to behind him. He strode across the room, in his white doctor’s smock, acknowledging my presence with a curt nod. I did recognize him, after all, despite all the streaks of grey in his thick, black hair.
Seating himself in a tall office-desk chair opposite my little, crouching straight chair, the doctor peered at me intently. I nodded again and murmured, “Morning, sir.” He nodded again and looked down at the folder on the desk in front of him. He looked at one page and turned it over. He reviewed another page and another… I was sitting there quietly.
At length, Dr. O-------- closed the folder, hunched forward, and examined my face carefully. He cleared his throat, leaned toward me a bit further, and spoke loudly in a clear baritone:
“Where,” he said (though it was really “Verr” with a “V”),
“WHERE – ARE – YOUR – GLASSES?”
***
