Dragons with Eyeglasses
Nobody will look at me. They look through me as I walk to work each day, carefully avoiding eye contact. I see them, they catch my eye for just a fraction of a second, and then they pretend sudden interest in something in the distance, just beyond my right shoulder. I count how many times this happens on the way to work, and on the way home. It gives me something to do. Or sometimes they will hold my glance long enough to give me one of those uncomfortable stranger-to-stranger smiles. The one that says, "See? You're no different from the rest of us. I will look at you and smile like I would the person next to you. There, aren't I a good person?" And then they find that interesting object in the distance, past my right shoulder, to glance at. They feign interest in the distant “whatever-it-is” until they have passed me by.
I wonder what that thing in the distance could possibly be. I mean, if it existed. If it wasn't just a point in space that people stare at in order to avoid my uncomfortable gaze. No that isn't right. It isn't my gaze that is uncomfortable, it is the act of looking at my gaze, looking back at them, that is the disconcerting thing. It's the notion that this could happen to them too! They sometimes flinch before they can catch themselves.
What could it be? I start to imagine what is over my shoulder as I walk to work, instead of counting the avoided eye contact people and the brave "you're no different" smiling people. What if a dragon lurked off in the distance? Nothing as cheesy as Godzilla stomping around in Japan, but a realistic, reptilian dragon with scales the size of a surfboard and nostrils the size of an Olympic swimming pool. Clomping around somewhere over my shoulder near the horizon, in the direction of the bay—colossal, maybe five stories tall, but far enough away that at this distance, an onlooker might not be sure what it is they are seeing. That would fit the distant gaze I see on these faces. Curiosity mingled with a bit of apprehension. Maybe the dragon has lived in the depths of the Chesapeake Bay for eons, and has just now emerged to be admired, perhaps even worshipped, by the masses of humanity, the people among whom I walk every day.
I imagine that I am the dragon. I flap my wings as curling smoke rises from my giant nostrils. I flap my wings and all manner of debris stirs, like dust motes at my feet. A trash can topples. People grab for their hats and skirts. One man holds his eyeglasses steady on his face. I always wanted to wear eyeglasses when I was growing up, but Mother said they would just draw unwanted attention to my face. As if my face does not draw enough unwanted attention.
I am a dragon with eyeglasses, flapping my wings in the middle of Waterside Drive, blocking traffic. Giant wire-rimmed glasses. They are round, like John Lennon’s. Or like Harry Potter’s for those too young to remember Lennon. They make me look like more than just the average wing-flapping dragon that has just sloshed to shore from the depths of the Chesapeake Bay. They make me look thoughtful, intellectual, perhaps even dashing. I stop flapping my wings. People stare up at me in awe. They don’t scream and run like people in movies would. These are real people who have maybe dreamed of seeing a real dragon someday, and today their dreams have come true. I notice water dripping onto the hot pavement, and then I notice how itchy it feels to have this salt water dripping down between my scales. Just exactly how does a scaly dragon scratch an itch? I begin to shake, starting somewhere in the middle, the way a wet dog would, and the shaking spreads from my center outward to the top if my smoke-tendrilly nose down to the barbed tip of my scaly dragon tail.
My eyeglasses stay in place. After all, a self-respecting dragon like me would make sure that the frames fit properly, right? The itching is gone. I feel good! No wonder dogs always smile when they do that. I smile. Then I notice that the people who once stared at me in awe are now disgusted because they are all wet. The man with the eyeglasses has un-tucked his white dress shirt and uses the tail to wipe his lenses. He is soaking wet anyway. Who will care if his shirt goes un-tucked? A woman disgustedly brushes sand and other grit that has clung to her full skirt. She looks up at me and shakes her fist, then walks off, cursing under her breath. The man with the eyeglasses finishes cleaning them, puts them back on, and regards me once more. I wonder if he is intelligent or if the glasses only make him look that way.
Then he does the unthinkable. He smiles. But not just any smile. It is that uncomfortable smile people flash at me when they want to uncomfortably convey that they are not put off by my face—that they, in fact, are proud of me for my bravery for being out in public at all. In addition they are proud of themselves for maintaining eye contact with me long enough to convey all of that information in one smile. That smile. Oh, how I hate that smile, even more than I hate seeing the eyes dart past me, beyond my right shoulder. At least those people are honest about how they really feel when they look at me. Especially the ones who flinch before looking away. Those are the truly honest people. They should be given a medal of some sort.
So I take a deep breath. I can breathe fire, right? I mean, I’m a dragon, for God’s sake. I take a deep breath and I heave out the contents of my lungs. Flames fan out in a cone directly under my nose. The man with the eyeglasses is frozen, close to me but untouched by the blaze. The heat steams the water in his clothing and the vapor rising from him reminds me of Darth Vader. I don’t know why. Did Darth Vader once walk in billows of smoky steam, in a haze of fog? Surely if anyone did that in full Cinematic glory, it would be Darth Vader. The mist rises from the man and grows, soon filling my vision. I flap my wings to clear the fog but they don’t feel right. They feel small and thin. Like arms. When I open my eyes, a face looms. It’s the man with the wire-rimmed John Lennon or Harry Potter eyeglasses. The woman in the filthy, now clean, full skirt looks on worriedly. I am lying on my back, drenched in my own sweat. I look down at myself and see the cone-shaped blotch of dark red blood covering my shirt.
I try to flap my wings but I am told to lie still. Help is on the way. So I close my eyes and I am the dragon once more. I flap my wings again and this time they feel like wings. I take to the air.
