The Look

My favorite way of staring at the TV has always been to turn my head to the right and look out of the corner of my eye. I've been doing this for as long as I can remember, and not just for TV. At the movies, at a sports game, even as far back as elementary school class. People didn't like it or hate it, they just accepted it as part of me. The look was not maniacal or in any way sinister, principally because of the huge, toothy smile that accompanied it. Plus it's hard to feel threatened by a round-faced, wide-eyed boy who's half the size of everyone else.

When relatives would come over to visit, they were always struck by how transfixed I was by the television.

"Oh, you must really love hockey," they'd remark.

I'd nod without averting my eyes.

"Do you play?" the uncle would ask.

I'd nod no.

He'd take a look at my slim shoulders and mutter, "Guess not." Sometimes they'd just tell my father, "Say, does he need glasses or something?" referring to me as though I was in need of repair, like a table with an uneven leg.

As a teenager, I'd sit in class and consider the world all while showing the look to my teachers.

"What a great listener he is!" they'd cheer at PTA sessions. Little did they know that I had already figured out why x to the zero-th power equals one and was now contemplating the bonus question. My life persisted, only I wasn't so small anymore.

Finally, not being able to follow the puck at a hockey game, I succumbed to the four eyes moniker. For a while, the look disappeared as the frames got in the way. I was no longer me. I will forever be grateful to Bausch & Lomb.

Somewhere deep into my higher education, I became a computer programmer. Extremely nocturnal, I could be found with countless others on the fifth floor of the student center, tapping away on a small piece of plastic intermittently. Many times my friends would walk right by without saying hello, claiming I was too deep in thought to be disturbed. Others said I treated my computer like I would a date. Others still thought nothing of it, themselves having more seriously impaired vision after a decade of green screen, flickering torture. They needed surgery; at most, I needed a good neck massage.

Three years out of graduate school with no more blackboards to eye obtusely, I was sitting in a McDonald's late at night with a number of acquaintances and friends, old and new. I found myself staring, and being stared at, by a woman I barely knew.

"Your eyes. Do you ever blink?" she asked.

I smiled and turned my head away and resumed my stance. Two years later, I'm standing at the altar, staring at her out of the corner of my eye.