Part 12 (2/2)
Some gear J.B. didn't recognize was on wheels in a corner. Four three-legged stools were lined up along one of the cluttered counters.
”You do a lot of business? With gla.s.ses, I mean,” he asked.
”Sure. No matter what, you've got people with failing vision. I do some work with contact lenses, too, but those are much more troublesome to match up to an individual and finding proper cleaning fluid's a b.i.t.c.h,” Clarke replied as he peered intently at J.B.'s open eyes. His attention was drawn to the white slashes of the various adhesive bandages on J.B.'s frowning visage.
”What happened to your face, if you don't mind my asking?”
”Cut myself shaving.”
”On your forehead?”
J.B. gave the optician a scathing look. ”That's why I need gla.s.ses.”
”Very well,” Clarke said, letting the matter drop. ”But I warn you now, you're going to have to talk to me if you want my help. I have no use for a man who grunts and speaks in monosyllables. If I'm to treat you, I must have your cooperation.”
”Okay. I'm used to keeping my own counsel.”
”You don't have to with me, not in here. Did you know that before predark, half the population of the United States wore some kind of gla.s.ses or corrective lenses?”
”Half?” J.B. said dubiously. ”Don't see that many people running around with specs anymore.”
”I know. In those days, increased life expectancy was the cause for the added eyestrain. See, around, oh, I don't know, the year 1900 or so, the average life span of an American was only forty-seven years. More disease and harder work combined to kill a man much earlier then, and this was around the same time when his vision began to fail anyway due to natural causes.”
”Everything's got to wear out,” J.B. said.
”Agreed,” Clarke replied. ”However, by the year 2000, a man's life span had increased to seventy-five years.”
”Really.”
”Yes. So, not only were people living longer, but they were better educated, which meant more reading, and much of the technology was vision driven, which caused even more wear on the eyes. Television and comp monitors. Very bad.”
”Not anymore,” J.B. remarked wryly.. Clarke continued with the explanation. ”Then, after we managed to take out most of civilization with nukes and chems and G.o.d knows what else, another hundred years pa.s.s and in a century's time the life expectancy rate has dropped to a dreadfully low figure.”
”How do you figure that?”
”I keep my own records. No census bureau to track it anymore,” Clarke said breezily. He gestured to one of the stools. ”Now, please sit over there, on the edge of the stool, and face me.”
J.B. did as he was told, grateful the stool was covered with a spongy yellow pad. ”I'm going to hold up a finger”
”I'm not drunk, Doc.”
”This isn't a sobriety test,” the optician replied with a smile. ”This is for ocular movement. When I hold up my finger, please watch it as I move it back and forth. Keep your eyes glued to the finger, but don't move your head.”
”All right.”
Clarke continued to speak as he moved the finger in a broad H-shaped motion. ”I would daresay due to disease and malnutrition, even with today's shorter life spans, many men and women could use a pair of gla.s.ses. Children, too. But expense and ignorance conspire to keep them trapped in their self-imposed blur, squinting and straining to the see the world around them.”
J.B. thought of some of the squalid conditions of the villes and outposts he'd traveled through, and of the faces of the poor and helpless he'd seen. ”There are parts of Deathlands where lousy vision could be considered a blessing, Doc,” he said quietly.
”Quite. When did you receive your first pair of eyegla.s.ses, Mr. Dix?” the optician replied, mirroring Ryan's question from earlier that day.
”Way back. I'd noticed my vision was starting to go in my early teens. I was having trouble with distance, but up close was fine. Reading wasn't getting harder.”
”Waityou read?” Clarke asked in a surprised tone of voice.
J.B. glared at the doctor. ”h.e.l.l, yes, I read.”
”No reason for anger, Mr. Dix. Just making sure for my records. What do you like to read?”
”Information on blasters. Rifle and pistol journals. Blaster specs. Anything I can find, use, and tuck away in my brain. Even the history of the weapons long gone and extinct. I like to know about them all, just in case I ever do see one.”
”Practical, I suppose.”
”d.a.m.n straight. But like I say, my eyes were starting to bother me, so I'd been trying to figure out how to get some specs. Then I got lucky. I got them in a trade. Rolling medicine man in a horse-drawn wag. Had pills, needles, bottles and a big steamer trunk of gla.s.ses. I sat down and started trying on pairs until I found a set that worked. The guy had been around and seemed to stay out of trouble since he was legit. Lots of bulls.h.i.+t artists pretending to be docs, Doc.” J.B. said pointedly.
”Yes, I've met a few,” Clarke replied, unruffled. ”So you knew even then your vision needed correcting?”
”Like I said, it wasn't so bad then. I could read fine . Needed help seeing far off, but I could shoot if squinted down hard and refocused.”
”I had wondered by your demeanor and weaponry if you might be a sec man. With your reading interests, that confirms my suspicions.”
”I just try to get by, and I need my eyes to do it.”
”Would you read the letters off the chart on the wall behind me, please?” Clarke stood and took a thin wooden pointer. He gestured with it to the top of the chart. ”Start with the third line.”
J.B. automatically squinted and said ” Q, G, T, X.”
Clarke rapped the stick on the chart, creating a popping sound on the heavy pape r. ”Without squinting, please.
_ J.B had to make himself not follow the reflex. ” Q, G, T, X ,” he said, as much from memory as actually being able to see the printing.
The optician lowered the pointer. ”Fourth line.”
”E, D, O no, wait, Q, P.”
”Fifth line.”
” B, U , or is that a V ? s.h.i.+t, those letters are tiny'”
Clarke didn't respond. He lowered the pointer to the next level. ”Sixth line.”
J.B. didn't reply. He squinted, waiting for Clarke to tell him to stop. Not that an admonishment from the doctor would have mattered since the squinting didn't help.
”I can't see the sixth line,” J.B. admitted.
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