Men and Cartoons by Jonathan Lethem Page B

optician. “Clean it off. Here.”
    The customer ducked backward. “Keep off. Don't fool with me. Can't clean it off. They're already messed up. Like the old ones. They're
all messed up
.”
    “Let me see,” said the optician.
    “Where's Dr. Bucket? I want to talk to the doctor.”
    “
Burkhardt
. And he's not a doctor. Let me see.” The optician drew in his stomach, adjusted his own glasses.
    “
You're
not the doctor, man.” The customer danced away recklessly, still thrusting out his chin.
    “We're both the same,” said the optician wearily. “We make glasses. Let me see.”
    The second optician came out of the back, smoothed his hair, and said, “What?”
    “Bucket!”
    The second optician looked at the first, then turned to the customer. “Something wrong with the glasses?”
    “Same thing as yesterday. Same place. Look.” Checking his agitation, he stripped his glasses off with his right hand and offered them to the second optician.
    “First of all, you should take them off with two hands, like I showed you,” said the second optician. He pinched the glasses at the two hinges, demonstrating. Then he turned them and raised them to his own face.
    The inside of the lenses were marked, low and close to the nose.
    “You touched them. That's the problem.”
    “No.”
    “Of course you did. That's fingerprints.”
    “Damn, Bucket, man. I'll show you the old ones. You can't even fix the problem.”
    “The problem is you touched them. Here.” The second optician went to the counter and dipped the glasses in a shallow bath of cleanser, dried them with a chamois cloth. The customer bobbed forward anxiously, trying to see.
    “What do you, scratch at your eyes all the time?” said the first optician, smiling now. The problem was solved.
    “Shut up,” said the customer, pointing a finger at the first optician. “Just shut up. You're not my doctor on this.”
    “Nobody is,” said the first optician. “You don't need a doctor, you need to keep your hands out of your eyes.”
    “Shut up.”
    The second optician glared at the first. He handed the glasses to the customer. “Let me see you put them on.”
    The customer bent his head down and lifted the glasses to his face.
    “Wait a minute, I couldn't see . . .”
    “It's the
fit
.”
    “The bill of your cap was in the way,” said the first optician.
    “Put them on again,” said the second.
    “Same thing,” said the customer, shaking his head. He pulled off the glasses, again with one hand. “Look. Still there. Little scratches.”
    The first optician stepped up close to the customer. “Sure. You touched it again. When I couldn't see. It's how you put them on.”
    “He uses his thumbs,” said the second, snorting.
    “Little scratches, man. I paid a hundred dollars. Second day I got these little scratches again. Might as well kept the old ones.” He thrust the glasses at the first optician.
    “They're not scratched,” said the first optician. “Just dirty. Your hands are dirty.”
    The customer flared his nostrils, twitched his cheek, raised his eyebrows. “That's
weak
, Bucket. I come in here show you a pair of glasses get all rubbed and scratched, I'm looking for some
help
. You tell me I need some new glasses. Now the new ones got the
same
problem, you tell me I got dirty
hands
. These the glasses you sold me, my man.”
    The second optician let air slip very slowly through his tightened lips. “Your old pair was scratched. You had them, what, ten years? They were falling off your face. The hinges were shot, the nosepiece was gone. The lens touched your cheek.” He paused to let this litany sink in. “The glasses I sold you are fine. The fit is fine. You just have to break some habits.”
    “Habits!”
    “He's a clown,” said the first optician, leaning back against the counter, sticking out his belly. “We should've thrown him out yesterday.”
    “Instead you took my
money
,” hissed the customer. “Good enough for you