Oak Cliff optical adventures!

I think it was Thursday (all the days are running together lately).

In need of contacts since I curiously misplaced my last leftie, I had arranged a 10:30am appointment at the Optical Clinic off Saner.

Now the Optical Clinic has long been where my family gets its eye exams. The place is only surpassed in age by the tottering old optometrist who apparently resides there. He was the same man who examined my father's eyes as a boy and who now presides over his tiny shop shuffling about, all hunched over, and mumbling the exact same spiel about covering the right now the left and tell me which looks clearer.

When his mind finally goes entirely, he will be asking his Jamaican social worker which line looks clearer. Regardless, he's the cheapest show in town and the result of visiting his moldy clinic with the bright blue plastic folding chairs is vision for approximately one year.

Only not this time.

Upon arrival, I was dismayed to be informed by an obese woman in scrubs that the doctor had not come in. Unsurprising.

Nevertheless, could I reschedule? I was directed to another installation deeper into Oak Cliff at 1:30.

Now, Oak Cliff is the neighborhood of Dallas directly to the north of our South Dallas suburban towns. Throughout my entire childhood, the place loomed large in my imagination. It is a very old, very large neighborhood, which at one time was comfortably affluent - I think about the 50's.

But when I knew it, it was the place for authentic Mexican food, YMCA baseball and deal hunting at the Red Bird Mall. I suppose what fascinated me was the pleasant hills, the ancient beautiful trees, the old houses. The place had such a look of memory and belonging - as if I were walking through a dilapidated, but picturesque version of my dad's adolescence.

Unfortunately, this was because no one had enough money or initiative to update anything. Furthermore, there was a real sinister side of the area of which even as a child I was cognizant. The widespread gang troubles and drug traffic made it the "lock your door, sweetie" area.

Now I'm back, walking up and down a street that looks more like Nogales than Dallas. I was reflecting on how fractured Dallas communities are. Gayborhood, little Mexico, the Hood, Asianland, the various Breadervilles, Yuppyland, Highnose Park... I suppose it's like this all over the U.S., but it still makes me sad the boys on the corner smoking weed regard me as such an interloper. "What the hell is he doing here? Let's stare at him menacingly."

I wandered in and out of shops as I waited. I spoke Spanish to most and was alternately regarded with delight or even more confusion. When 1:30 rolled around, the Optical clinic remained impassively closed. Immensely irritated, I strode across the street to an even shadier dive.

For a couple bucks I finally got my eyes examined by a goofy-shaped spider of a man with tired hair, a rubbery, slack face and spindly arms and legs. His "resting demeanor" was silent and brooding, but when he did talk, his voice, bizarrely affected, slightly patronizing, weirdly effeminate, would attack your consciousness like a bored flight attendant droning on about where to jump when the plane bursts into flames.

As he swayed his entire body about to emphasize his dire warnings of contact over-use, I began to doubt the security of the situation. When he peered at my retinas from half an inch of distance from my face, the only light in the dark, closed room coming from his hand held eye-looker thingy, I had to resist the urge to break into hysterics.

I'm just glad they put jalapeños in my French fries at the restaurant where I ate lunch. It´s the little things that make these ordeals all worth while.


Don't eat here...