Short Story 7 - Living Relic of the Past

Quite a few things remain constant in this world we live in. The bright shine of the sun on a hot August day, the salty yet refreshing scent of a sea breeze, the predictably unpredictable mountain weather that will surprise you no matter how well you prepare, and the steadfastness of the old man working his way through a mountain of glasses in a small, dark room down the street. 

There probably was a time that the old man could not have been found in that street corner. After all, he could not have withstood the test of time over the centuries and remained unmoving in the same spot since the very beginning of time. However, to the casual observer it would not have been surprising to hear that he was born with and will die with this place that he sits at. A relic from the past, he’s quiet and observant. Walking into his little room transports one to a time long forgotten, slightly reminiscent of a run-down nation in the World War 2 era. What glasses could he have been fixing then? What kind of glasses did people even wear during that time? For that matter, when were glasses even invented? 

Looking at him working away, one starts to wonder, what was this man in his past life? Did he have children, grandchildren? A loving wife we came home to at the exact same time, every single day? The repairman offered no answers. Only long, wordless looks. His face expressionless, one eye (the blind one) always staring off into space. 

From the short interaction I’ve had with the old man, he seemed courteous. I remember when I first met him, looking for the famed glasses repairman of the neighborhood. I couldn’t find the entrance to his shop anywhere until the kind lurker on the street pointed me to his little corner in exchange for a smoke. The door was tucked away underground, with a narrow cement staircase leading down. The structure resembled a wine cellar almost. The door was wooden, slightly closed but the yellow light inside indicated that the owner was around. 

I knocked quietly for courtesy before letting myself in. He sat up slightly to get a look from his tall desk. Clearly unbothered by what he saw, he sat himself back down and awaited my approach. No greeting nor acknowledgement. The man spoke few words. I surveyed the room as I walked over. Dark. Only source of light, a lonely light fixture emitting weak, yellow glow. Glasses upon glasses (regular, sunglasses) stacked on various wooden shelves in the corner. The man himself had a few next to him that he kept looking at, adjusting, and moving to the other corner of the desk. 

As I reach the desk, I finally greet him. “Hello sir, I was told I could come to you to get my sunglasses fixed. Would you be able to help?” 

A wordless nod. I put my sunglasses on the counter and I could see his one good eye evaluating me and the work I brought him. “Come back in 20 minutes” he grunts while taking the sunglasses off of the counter. Those were the only words he spoke. No questions about what needed fixing. No need for my name. Nothing. He knew everything that had to be done. 

I went for a quick coffee walk around the block, thinking about that little dark room and the man that rarely leaves it. Did he have any other repairman friends? Maybe they each get a cellar of their own and little hangouts after their work finishes (which is hopefully at the same time). 

I return soon after and true to his word, my glasses are waiting for me on top of his tall desk. I’m delighted with them and proceed to put them on top of my head. 

“Not good for the glasses, better kept on your face rather than your head” he grunts as he shrugs. Clearly he’s seen more than one pair get destroyed over and over again. 

I inquire about how much I owe him. The man pauses his work for a brief second and says “However much you feel like paying me” 

That was not something I was expecting. Was I feeling a 5, 10, 20, 100? It was a small repair. But so quickly and skillfully done. What have others done in this situation in the past… Was this man a ploy planted by the universe to evaluate our kindness of heart? I pulled out a ten and put it on top of his table. 

“Would this be enough?” I ask, although in my heart I know that he will never say anything even if it’s not enough. He’ll make his own conclusions about the person and for some reason, his conclusion seems important to me. 

He gives me a quick nod but I can see a hint of a smile on his face. I proceed to put the sunglasses on my head (the exact opposite of what he advised me to do) and head out of the lightless glasses cellar. 

Every once in a while, I end up in that same neighborhood. I keep an eye out for those steep cement stairs, the cigarette-bumming lurker and the little yellow light shedding from the wooden doors. Every time I pass by, it’s there. I never see a person enter, but the work of the man never seems to end.

Whether a universal human kindness evaluation ploy, a bored grandfather, or a sad old man having never amassed enough money for a comfortable living, the repairman keeps toiling away. Day by day. Going through the mountain of glasses stacking up on one side which never seems to decrease no matter how persistently he works on fixing everything in his sight. A relic of the past that somehow easily withstands the test of time with each decade.