Kristen is beside me prepping to teaching tomorrow; Adele on
the floor studying; Bradley in the rocking chair playing chess on his
ipod. While I am just trying to get my
head around this day.
It’s been a doozy.
Not the part that is peculiar to most people—the part where
the graveyard sergeant put a screeching halt to my REM cycle at 3:45 AM and I
was out the door ten minutes later to be the softer side of law enforcement in
the midst of tragic loss or traumatic stress.
The part, rather, before I left, when the coffee machine—-equipped
the night before with water and fresh-ground bean—-lit up, but didn’t heat up
when I hit the button and hoped for a quick brew to drink en route. Had I seen this as an omen, I would have been
less surprised hours later, when the old ’99 Lumina was lighting up and heating
up as I was pulling in to the station to write the follow up report.
The doctor’s appointment went well later in the morning, and
at my lunch appointment I took the first two pills from the Z-Pack prescribed to
put this left-over wheezing and rattling in my chest out of my misery. After which I replaced the split hose under the
Lumina’s hood and headed home at the early end of a nine-hour day. But…that didn’t fix the car. It’s still overheating. And…the rest of the Z-Pack is nowhere to be
found. I’ve looked everywhere, inquired at
every business served by every parking lot I pulled into all day. I’ve checked every pocket of every piece of
clothing, returned to the office—twice.
Twice, because I inadvertently took some keys home the first time (that
are not meant to leave the office) and had to return them. Oh.
And I broke a plate my wife bought in Holland. And the pharmacy gave me the wrong asthma
prescription and I had to drive back there.
If you’re expecting anything profound or insightful, I’ve
got nothing. My one remaining hope is to
make it to bed without breaking, losing, or having to return anything.
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