Playing the one-eyed jack

In a coincidence of bad timing, my monthly poker game came up on the

same day I was scheduled to get a new right eye.

This conflict posed certain questions that took quite different

directions between my wife and me. My question was whether I would be

able to read the cards 10 hours after eye surgery. Her question was

whether I had completely taken leave of my senses by even considering

playing poker under such circumstances.

In an effort to compromise, I agreed to wait and see how I was

feeling Friday night before making a decision. She brushed off this

rational position by saying that if I contin- ued to consider this

insanity, I should recognize that it would be both unreasonable and

unfair not to tell the other players I wouldn’t be there, so they

would have time to replace me. So I did that under some duress, and

on this uneasy note, we drove at 6:30 Friday morning to the Hoag

outpatient clinic in Newport Center where the cataract surgery was to

be performed.

All of this was taking place because of two eyesight failures

serious enough to require immediate attention. First, I was no longer

able to read the scoreboard at Angel Stadium, making it impossible

for me to follow other games in progress while watching the Angels.

And, second, I flunked my eye test when I had to renew my driver’s

license.

I apparently misread the eye chart so spectacularly that the lady

giving it to me sought out higher authority. He wondered why I had

checked “none” after a question about vision problems, and didn’t

seem satisfied when I told him I didn’t think my scoreboard

difficulties were relevant to this question.

He was mollified, however, when I explained I was scheduled for

eye surgery and gave me a provisional license on the basis of my

better eye.

So, there was a lot at stake when I was rolled into the surgery. I

found it fitting that my right eye was the one causing the most

trouble. I was still seeing matters much more clearly in my left eye.

I am still astonished at the bustling efficiency with which the

surgery was accomplished. The nurses were relaxed and answered

questions cheerfully. So did the anesthesiologist.

And so did the surgeon, Dwayne Logan, who made it sound quick and

easy -- and it was. I was half asleep but not out, heard the talk

during the process of scraping out my cataracts and inserting a new

lens in my eye, and felt nothing. After a half-hour to recuperate

from the drug that had put me to half-sleep, we were on our way home.

We had to report to Dr. Logan that afternoon for an inspection.

When he told us everything had come off successfully, I was able to

get home in time to watch the Angels game on television. Poker was

not discussed while the Angels raised my spirits by winning. Because

the Angels were playing in Chicago, the game was over about the time

poker was convened. I was mindful of that but decided to quit while I

was ahead.

That’s when Sherry came home from her evening walk to tell me she

had run into a group of poker players en route to the game -- and

found out there was still a seat open. So she admitted to me that I

was a lot perkier than she had expected, and if I wanted to be stupid

enough to play poker instead of watching a TV movie with her, it was

my call and she wouldn’t fuss about it. So at 9 o’clock, I appeared

at the poker game.

For about three minutes, I was a mild diversion while they asked

about my day. Then attention returned to poker. It took me about an

hour to admit this was a bad idea. I couldn’t see the cards across

the table and had to ask their identity. The pizza on the sideboard

was mildly repellent to me, and I didn’t want anything to drink. Most

talk was a slurry of sound. And I was losing.

The first real concern the other players showed was when they

found I had driven over (Sherry didn’t know). Although it was just a

couple of blocks, that was a bad idea too. But by 10:30, I was home

safely and ready to crash.

I’m not sure of the moral of this story -- except, perhaps, that

stupidity isn’t always punished. If you perceive something better,

let me know.

Meanwhile, as I write this I’m looking into our backyard, which is

greener than I’ve seen it for a long time. And I never realized how

blue the cushions on our lawn chairs are. Or how crisp everything in

my vision is when the sun shines on it.

I can hardly wait to test my new eye on the Angels scoreboard next

week.

*

One of the few joyous developments to show up in print in these

days and weeks and months of war and floods and corruption and

general disaster is the re-appearance in the Los Angeles Times of

Calvin and Hobbes. Those of you who don’t know these people -- and

never have they been needed more -- can get in at the beginning.

And those of you who number them among your closest friends can

rejoice along with me.

For the uninitiated, Calvin is a kid of maybe 5 or 6 with firm

convictions and a diabolical mind. Hobbes is a stuffed tiger to

everyone but Calvin. To Calvin, Hobbes is a pragmatic, irreverent

realist off whom Calvin can bounce ideas.

During the 10 years or so they were part of my life, Calvin and

Hobbes provided more refrigerator pin-ups than all other sources put

together. Calvin quickly evolved from a mean little kid with smarts

to a keen philosopher with an ideal foil in his tiger.

Their creator, Bill Watterson, quit drawing the strip abruptly a

few years ago, apparently a victim of burn-out. Like Peanuts, what

we’re seeing now are reruns. But unlike Charles Schultz, Watterson is

very much alive.

Maybe Calvin can persuade him to get back in the fray. Meanwhile,

if you haven’t met Calvin, I urge you to check him out.

* JOSEPH N. BELL is a resident of Santa Ana Heights. His column

appears Thursdays.