New Orleans, Weeping Willows, and the Weird Eye Doctor
My stay in New Orleans was short, less than twenty-four hours. However, in that brief time, one of the weirdest things happened.
Years earlier I’d purchased my first pair of contact lenses. I’d finally shed those big ol’ brown glasses that my fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Culpepper, had forced upon me without my parents’ approval. Now that I’d joined the Army, I had to undergo another eye exam. My secret horrible vision was once again revealed! At the MEPS office a young medic, who wore a pair of brown glasses almost as thick as mine, handed me a small yellow piece of paper. On it was scribbled an address.
“A yellow taxi will pick you up on this corner in about ten minutes,” he said.
It was late morning, already hot outside, when the taxi arrived. It was my first time in a cab. I hopped in and didn’t say a word as I handed the driver the piece of paper and sat back, mesmerized as we drove through New Orleans. We must have driven for twenty minutes, long enough for me to be sufficiently lost. When the taxi stopped at an old house, surrounded by weeping willow trees, I realized I didn’t have any money to pay. He looked at me and must have recognized what was going through my mind.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said impatiently. “The Army done already paid for it.” He pointed me in the direction of the old house and drove off.
I sauntered up the driveway. Dead leaves were scattered everywhere. It seemed like there hadn’t been a visitor in a while. The steps moaned as I mounted the flimsy wooden porch. On the porch was a rocking chair in the corner; beside the chair was a small wooden coffee table with an awkwardly bent leg. The leg resembled a dying wildebeest, struggling to escape the jaws of a crocodile. To the left, swinging from the ceiling by two long, thin chains, was a wooden bench long enough to seat at least three. Startled, I thought a spider was crawling on the back of my neck until I realized it was just a string dangling from the porch light.
I knocked on the flimsy wooden screen door. The main door was already open, allowing me to see inside. No one answered. I knocked again, my face now only inches from the screen as I strained to see what was on the other side of the door.
“Hold on! I’m commin’!” I heard someone groan from deep within the house.
The footsteps sounded slow and reluctant, almost as if the occupant’s legs didn’t want to work. Clomp, clomp, clomp, I heard the steps. What slowly appeared was a short white man.
“You Tyrone?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” I replied, immediately having second thoughts about entering.
“Is this some sort of trick?” I thought to myself. I’d heard that New Orleans was known for voodoo. “What if I go into this house and never come out?”
He unhitched the inner metal clasp and pushed the screen door open.
“Well, come on in!” he said in a slow Southern drawl with a hint of impatience.
I am sure we were walking, but it seemed as though I was floating. Through the living room, I drifted. Along a narrow hallway, mounted on the walls, were old pictures of people I assumed were his relatives. Or, my imagination said, maybe they were victims.
We passed the kitchen on the left. Something, perhaps lunch, bubbled in a pot on the stove as steam drifted toward the ceiling. On the right was a small dining room. A doctor’s chair sat in the corner beneath an open window; the sheer curtains danced in the slight breeze. Beyond the window was another weeping willow tree.
“Sit in that chair,” he said. His speech reminded me of how tired the weeping willow trees look.
I sat in the chair, watching as he disappeared into the kitchen, curtains dancing around my shoulders. I heard water running from a faucet. He appeared again, drying his hands on a brown towel.
“Put your head back,” he said.
There was no explanation of what was happening. All instructions were direct and in that same slow, willow-like drawl. Adjusting ancient optometrist equipment, he began to check my vision.
“Don’t blink,” he said, pinching my eyelids open with his thumb and index finger.
He squirted a drop into one eye, then the other. I blinked as the liquid coated my eyeballs. Several seconds later everything blurred. Although I wanted to keep my eyes open, they slammed themselves shut. I wasn’t sleepy or drowsy, but my eyes were ultra-sensitive to the light shining through those sheer curtains.
“Here ya’ go,” he said, placing a small piece of paper in my hand. “This way.” He grabbed my forearm and guided me up from the seat. Still blinking rapidly, I realized we were back in the narrow hallway. I tried to focus on the pictures as he ushered me through the house. The images now looked grotesque, distorted, eerily disfigured.
The sound of the boiling pot seemed to be magnified; the smell of cooked pork drifted through the air. Still blurry-eyed, I winced at the light shining through the screen door as I walked on awkwardly with my hands out in front of me. I pushed the door open and stumbled down the steps. The rays of sunlight pierced like daggers. I closed my eyes tight as I felt my way down the walkway.
Finally, on the sidewalk, I heard cars passing.
“Wait here,” he said. “A taxi’s gonna come get you.” He shoved something into my pant pocket. “Give this to the driver.” He headed back up his walkway. I could hear the crunch of dry leaves, the sound of his footsteps fading.
“What in the hell just happened?” I thought as the screen door slammed in the distance.
I’d had my eyes dilated before, but not like this. This experience had been straight-up weird. Blind on the sidewalk, about to get into whatever car pulled up next to me, I was just happy to be out of that house.
I stood there for what seemed like forever, listening to the sound of engines passing by. My eyes were still clamped shut; I heard a car pull up. It stopped!
“Get in,” a voice said.
I forced my eyes open for a millisecond to confirm that the vehicle was yellow. I slid into the back. Hiding from bright daggers of sunlight, I laid down on the seat. By the time we arrived back at the MEPS the dilation had worn off.
Hours later I was on a bus loaded with new recruits, headed for the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport — my first time on a plane. As we lifted off and banked right, I saw the waters of Lake Pontchartrain out the window. Flying over the Delta, I was fascinated by the vastness of the cotton fields below. As the plane climbed I felt as though I’d left a piece of me behind.
I hope you enjoyed this post — if you want to connect, you can reach me here via email at ty@typinkins.com or connect with me on social: LinkedIn, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter. Also, you can purchase my book, 23 Miles & Running, on Amazon.
