Mind Blown

In February of 2011, after a year and a half without a permanent residence, I began thinking of settling somewhere again. My girlfriend and I returned to Boston, where we’d lived for five years, where my poker career had blossomed, where I’d founded a non-profit organization that I eventually handed off to a worthy successor when we set off on our nomadic experiment. It’s a place that feels as much like home to me as anywhere.

You all know what happened next. Soon we were more nomadic than ever, forced to leave the country if I was going to keep playing online poker.

On Black Friday, just hours before I got the news, I bought a new pair of glasses. They were expensive, not the sort of thing you’d buy if you knew you were about to lose your job. I described them in my Gray Friday essay:

“I end up dropping nearly $500 on a fashionable pair that she and the salesman agree fit my face far better than the ones that cost half that price. Comparing them to my current glasses, the salesman asks, “Is it safe to assume that making a statement with your glasses is new to you?” I smile. Spending $250 less for perfectly good frames would have been a no-brainer a few years ago, but now I intend to make up the difference in about an hour at the virtual tables when I get home tonight.”

These glasses, representing as they do clear vision and all that, have since loomed large in my symbolic imagination. They’re a constant reminder of that day and how it changed my life.

Over the summer, one of the nose pads fell out. I didn’t realize it immediately, and I never found it. I’ve been to a few glasses shops near my new home in Pittsburgh, but none of them carried that model or were able to give me a suitable replacement.

This weekend, I returned to Beantown for a Boston Debate League tournament. It was exciting to see how the league had grown and meet some of the new BDL employees, but I was also looking forward to returning to the little shop in Harvard Square and finally getting my glasses fixed.

Unfortunately, they no longer carried that model, and weren’t able to replace the nose pad on the spot. The young man assisting me, however, did offer to call the company that made them and have the piece delivered to me. I overheard him on the phone telling them what I needed. “This is Josh from Eye Q in Harvard Square. I’ve got a customer who needs a replacement nose pad. That’s right. For the Big Slick.” He gave them my address and hung up.

I stared at him, slack-jawed. “What’s the name of this model?”

“Big Slick,” he confirmed. I started laughing to myself and shaking my head. He looked at me inquiringly.

“You don’t happen to play poker, do you?” He shook his head. “Long story. Not worth explaining. Thanks for your help,” I told him and walked out in a daze.