Benny Jay: X-Ray Man

The call from the eye glasses doctor comes in the early afternoon: Your new glasses are ready.

I walk to the store. I try them on. Oh, my God!

“Do you like them?” the sales clerk asks.

“Do I like them?” I say. “I, I….”

I don’t quite know what to say. My view of the world’s changed. It had been fuzzy, dim, distorted. Now it’s sharp and clear — I see details I’ve never seen before….

It makes me feel oddly empowered, almost intoxicated with joy, like Maria in West Side Story.

I rise from my chair and sweep across the showroom of the eye-glasses store, singing as I dance:

“I feel pretty, oh, so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and bright….”

And all the clerks join in, rising from their chairs to sing chorus:

“See that pretty guy in that mirror there — what mirror, where? — who can that attractive guy be?”

Okay, none of that singing/dancing stuff really happens. But that’s how I feel. And the song really comes to my mind, stays there too. I hear it now, as a matter of fact.

“I feel stunning, and entrancing — feel like running and dancing for joy….”

Cause I see things — everything….

I go to the rap concert featuring SB. Great rapper. Love his band. It’s a benefit. The room’s filled with gloriously handsome, fabulously dressed young men and women. I see a man meet a woman. They shake hands. He buys her a drink. He goes to the bathroom, she pulls her pocket mirror out of her purse, and slathers her lips with lipstick. Puckers them. Checks herself out. Looking good. The man returns. She puts her hand on his back. Leans forward so her face brushes his. Whispers in his ear.

It’s a hustle — all a hustle. I see it all….

I come home, turn on the TV and watch the Olympic figuring-skating finals. Joannie Rochette is about to skate. The announcers keep saying she’s the skater’s whose mother just died. They say it over and over, like she has no other name. Like they’re afraid we might forget if they don’t remind us. Cause they know we need a reason to watch this stuff we don’t really like watching. It’s all about selling a product. They can’t sell it if you’re not watching it being sold and the way to get you to watch is to make you think you care about the skater whose mother just died.

The commentators are so catty and cruel, like girls in the high-school cafeteria. They gush about the skaters as they whirl round the ice. But every chance they get they stick the needle where it hurts.

As they play and replay the replays, they say: The jumps look flawless, but if you look close — I mean, really, really close — you’ll see, she didn’t quite make it. Oh, too, bad.

Yeah, like they really care….

Oh, yes, I see everything — hear it, too….

Kim Yu-Na (from South Korea) wins the gold — Mao Asada (from Japan) the silver. As Mao Asada steps to the medal stand, the commentators point out that she’s from Japan and Kim’s from South Korean and the two countries have a long history of hatred. Then then they say — I hope Asada’s not too upset with her second-place finish.

Ha, ha, ha, ha — right. Like you’re not happy that’s she’s unhappy.

Yes, now I understand why so many people — not just the announcers — love watching this shit. They get to hate while pretending to like.

It’s the glasses. They’re so strong — they turn me into X-Ray Man. I see into the souls of my fellow men and women and I don’t like what I see: Depravity, deceit, delusion, selfishness, spite, envy, blind ambition, naked greed — hate!

I take off my glasses. The focus blurs, details disappear. Ah, better — more reassuring.

I go to bed. Sleep for hours. Wake feeling rested. Waddle downstairs in my pajamas and slippers. Open the door. Retrieve the daily papers.

The front page of the Sun-Times says it all: “Skater Whose Mother Died Wins Bronze….”

Ahhhh! I see too much — I see it all….