Love Is a Thing with a Price Tag So Expensive You Should Really Just Shoplift It

Nathaniel Duggan

I needed new glasses, but I didn’t “need” them, per se, in terms of prescription, health, optometry: no, this was more an issue about my face, its jowls and droopings and how I needed frames that fit it better, how I wanted a better-looking face. I was kind of ugly. I’d just been divorced. I hated my job and my friends, and besides my clothes barely fit, so I went to the glasses store. It was insane. The first thought I had was, “Motherfucker”. Sometimes I suspect everyone on the planet is thinking at any given moment “Motherfucker”. Probably the original thought that signified cognizance in the human race was “Motherfucker”—in fact, I firmly believe the last thought our species will have in the guttered void of civilization will be “Motherfucker”. Basically, everything in that glasses store was motherfucking expensive. They were charging hundreds of dollars for motherfucking pieces of plastic. I would need a week’s worth of work to be able to afford a frame into which they stuck little lenses that costed an additional fee, because I also had to pay for the eye doctor and the eye doctor’s secretary and the eye doctor’s office building—not to mention the parking ticket for the eye doctor’s lot and the rent in the eye doctor’s city.

“They’re not expensive,” the sales representative informed me over my shoulder. “That would imply that the price outweighs the value.”

This sales rep kept following me around throughout the store. He made hefty sounds with his nostrils whenever I picked something up or checked a price tag. I hated him and the store. I wanted to rear-end a minivan on the highway with a bunch of children in its backseat. Then I found a pair of frames I liked, one that quite complemented the contours of my face.

“Ah,” the sales rep said, as if struck by a sudden blow. “Sir, I’m afraid those don’t suit you at all.”

“I’ll take them,” I said.

“Perhaps this model would be more to your liking…” he suggested.

I ignored him. I took the glasses I wanted over to the cash register. I readied my wallet. As I waited for the sales rep to ring me up, it occurred to me how insane it was that glasses, like cars, had models. “Motherfucker,” I thought again.

“Sir,” the sales rep said. He had not moved from where he stood. The way the store’s light fell gave the shelves of glasses behind him an opaque sheen that reminded me inexplicably of eggs, of things that could crack and burst. “They simply do not fit your aesthetic.”

“How much do I owe you?” I said.

“Sir,” the sales rep said. “I cannot allow you to complete this purchase.”

I didn’t know what to do. They did not train you for these sorts of situations. There was no instruction manual. No one came to school when you were a kid and counselled your class on how to handle an eyeglass sales rep refusing to sell you an overpriced model that made your face look better. Instead, they obsessively taught you what to do about drugs, kidnappers in tinted vehicles offering you candy, people trying to kill you with guns—never anything useful like dealing with glasses salesmen.

“I’d just,” I said. “I’d like to buy these, please.”

My voice had gotten quiet. I was no longer carrying the thought “Motherfucker” around in my head. I’d discarded it like a useless receipt. I didn’t even care about the glasses anymore, really. I just wanted to go home and maybe eat a fast food fish sandwich. The sales rep didn’t look so good himself. He was using his tie to dab sweat off his face.

“I could call my manager…” he mumbled.

The glasses fell from my hands to the carpeted floor. They landed like a loaded weapon. The sales rep and I looked at each other. Maintaining eye contact, I lifted my foot and stomped the glasses as hard as I could. My expression did not change. I stomped again and again. The sales rep wiped his forehead with his tie. He put the tie in his mouth and gnawed on it. There was no other sound in the store. I kept smashing. Maybe those frames really were worth the money—they did not bend an inch.