James Axler – Freedom Lost

“Okay. I’m used to keeping my own counsel.”

“You don’t have to with me, not in here. Did you know that before predark, half the population of the United States wore some kind of glasses or corrective lenses?”

“Half?” J.B. said dubiously. “Don’t see that many people running around with specs anymore.”

“I know. In those days, increased life expectancy was the cause for the added eyestrain. See, around, oh, I don’t know, the year 1900 or so, the average life span of an American was only forty-seven years. More disease and harder work combined to kill a man much earlier then, and this was around the same time when his vision began to fail anyway due to natural causes.”

“Everything’s got to wear out,” J.B. said.

“Agreed,” Clarke replied. “However, by the year 2000, a man’s life span had increased to seventy-five years.”

“Really.”

“Yes. So, not only were people living longer, but they were better educated, which meant more reading, and much of the technology was vision driven, which caused even more wear on the eyes. Television and comp monitors. Very bad.”

“Not anymore,” J.B. remarked wryly.. Clarke continued with the explanation. “Then, after we managed to take out most of civilization with nukes and chems and God knows what else, another hundred years pass and in a century’s time the life expectancy rate has dropped to a dreadfully low figure.”

“How do you figure that?”

“I keep my own records. No census bureau to track it anymore,” Clarke said breezily. He gestured to one of the stools. “Now, please sit over there, on the edge of the stool, and face me.”

J.B. did as he was told, grateful the stool was covered with a spongy yellow pad. “I’m going to hold up a finger”

“I’m not drunk, Doc.”

“This isn’t a sobriety test,” the optician replied with a smile. “This is for ocular movement. When I hold up my finger, please watch it as I move it back and forth. Keep your eyes glued to the finger, but don’t move your head.”

“All right.”

Clarke continued to speak as he moved the finger in a broad H-shaped motion. “I would daresay due to disease and malnutrition, even with today’s shorter life spans, many men and women could use a pair of glasses. Children, too. But expense and ignorance conspire to keep them trapped in their self-imposed blur, squinting and straining to the see the world around them.”

J.B. thought of some of the squalid conditions of the villes and outposts he’d traveled through, and of the faces of the poor and helpless he’d seen. “There are parts of Deathlands where lousy vision could be considered a blessing, Doc,” he said quietly.

“Quite. When did you receive your first pair of eyeglasses, Mr. Dix?” the optician replied, mirroring Ryan’s question from earlier that day.

“Way back. I’d noticed my vision was starting to go in my early teens. I was having trouble with distance, but up close was fine. Reading wasn’t getting harder.”

“Waityou read?” Clarke asked in a surprised tone of voice.

J.B. glared at the doctor. “Hell, yes, I read.”

“No reason for anger, Mr. Dix. Just making sure for my records. What do you like to read?”

“Information on blasters. Rifle and pistol journals. Blaster specs. Anything I can find, use, and tuck away in my brain. Even the history of the weapons long gone and extinct. I like to know about them all, just in case I ever do see one.”

“Practical, I suppose.”

“Damn straight. But like I say, my eyes were starting to bother me, so I’d been trying to figure out how to get some specs. Then I got lucky. I got them in a trade. Rolling medicine man in a horse-drawn wag. Had pills, needles, bottles and a big steamer trunk of glasses. I sat down and started trying on pairs until I found a set that worked. The guy had been around and seemed to stay out of trouble since he was legit. Lots of bullshit artists pretending to be docs, Doc.” J.B. said pointedly.

“Yes, I’ve met a few,” Clarke replied, unruffled. “So you knew even then your vision needed correcting?”