Optometrist Trap
At the slightly-pubescent age of 17 (I was a late bloomer), I got the bridge of my nose pierced. A bridge piercing consists of a bar going through that fatty-ish part of the top of your nose between your eyes, called the nasion. It was a dumb thing to do, but the guitarist, Ahrue Luster, from the band Machine Head had one, so I thought it might look cool on me. I already had multiple other piercings, some of which had come and gone.
I worked as a busboy at a country club and resort near my hometown. The club hosted banquets, receptions, golf tournaments, and more. It was a semi-upper-class establishment that encouraged the local blue-collar workforce to indulge in the luxuries of golf, racquetball, and private dining. Piercings, tattoos, colored hair, and similar items were prohibited. I was employed as a favor to my mother, a friend of the club’s general manager, Kim.
Due to its location on the face, the bridge piercing was a complex wound that took weeks to heal. I spent nearly 30 minutes a day cleaning, rotating, and caring for it. If left unattended, the crusty mess in the direct center could easily become infected. Proper care included not removing the barbell for at least eight weeks after the piercing.
The piercing expert, Doc, who performed the puncture at A Spot of Ink & A Taste Of Steel in Vincennes, Indiana, explained, “Boy, I’d just leave the damned thing in if I was you. It might immediately close up on ya if ya take it out.” His long, braided, grey goatee went into my eye as he measured the placement with a marker on where to place the needle.
To keep my job and my incredibly cool, new piercing, I had to wear glasses that would hide the barbell's visible oddness. The two balls at the ends protruding from my nose were virtually unnoticeable while wearing spectacles.
When I parked in the lot at work, I would sit in my car, pop my contacts out of my eyeballs, place them into a lens repository, slide on my glasses, and punch the clock.
One evening in December, the club was hosting an array of events. I bounced all over the grounds—from banquet halls to the bar to the main dining area. My responsibilities were to fill water glasses, run food to the buffet, light candles, clear tables, fill ice bins, sneak samples of the hors d'oeuvres when Chef wasn’t looking, and try and hide from Kim on the deck of the golf pro-shop.
I recall working my butt off this evening, due to how busy we were: an optometry convention, a women’s Sorosis holiday party, an award ceremony for the local community college, and the 19th Hole restaurant was open to members for regular dining. The gratuity was better during the holidays and people were more charitable.
As employees, we shared a restroom with members and guests. Late one evening, I needed a break to wash my sweat-dripping face. I ran into the men's bathroom, removed my glasses, and, with my piercing in plain sight, splashed my face with water from the sink. I stared at myself for a second, hoping the redness would subside.
Before I could dry my face, an older man, 65-ish, turned from the urinal, zipped up his khaki pants and tucked in his short-sleeved Polo shirt.
He immediately spotted my piercing.
"Hey, son, what do you have between your eyes there?" the man asked.
I quickly slid my glasses on and patted around my face to soak up the rest of the water.
Thinking quickly, I replied, "Sir, these are magnets. You see, I have a tough time keeping my glasses up, so I had these magnets surgically implanted so they wouldn't slide down."
The man seemed baffled but intrigued. He peered above and below my face, trying to get a good look and see how the magnets worked.
"Interesting! Where did you have it done?" he asked.
"Terre Haute," I replied, thinking of the closest city nearby.
"From what ophthalmologist’s office?"
"Dr. Tavel did the implant,” I replied. It was the first eye doctor that came to mind, as the commercials regularly played on regional television.
He glanced at me briefly, tilted his head, and finished washing his hands. Then he grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser, patted his hands dry, smiled, and said, "I am Dr. Tavel.”
He caught me on my bullshit.
Photo from my senior yearbook