J.R. Solonche

It was 1965.

I dropped out of college.

I was 1-A.

So the letter came.

It was a greeting card from Uncle Sam.

“Greetings,” it said.

So I went to Whitehall Street.

It was 5 AM.

It was dark.

It was drizzling.

It was dreary.

I was scared shit.

But I had the letter from Dr. Bearman.

It said I had albuminuria.

I don’t know why Dr. Bearman thought that would get me out.

But it was all I had.

I recognized a few from high school.

Goldstein was there.

Weintraub was there.

Grazzioli was there.

But he wasn’t drafted.

He was there to join the Marines.

I had a clipboard.

I went from line to line.

I went from station to station.

I passed everything.

But I had my letter which I hadn’t shown yet.

I didn’t know which doctor to show it to.

Wasn’t there a kidney doctor to show it to?

I was running out of doctors.

The last station was the eye exam.

“Take off your glasses and read the last line on the chart,” the sergeant said.

I knew he was a sergeant.

I had seen sergeants in movies.

I recognized the stripes.

I took off my glasses.

I couldn’t see the last line.

I couldn’t see the chart.

I could barely see the wall.

“I can’t read it,” I said.

“Give me those glasses,” the sergeant said.

I gave him my glasses.

He put them under some kind of microscope.

He shook his head.

He wrote “Z” next to my right eye.

He wrote “Z” next to my left eye.

“What does “Z” mean?” I asked.

“It means you’re Zeed out,” he said.

He gave me my clipboard.

“You’re 4-F. You’re fucking blind,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said.

So I didn’t need Dr. Bearman’s letter.

So I didn’t need albuminuria.

So I didn’t need a kidney doctor.

So I just needed my eyes.

So I thanked my father for his Z eyes.

So I thanked my grandfather for his Z eyes.

So I thanked my great-grandfather for his Z eyes.

So I thanked my lucky Z stars.