Monday, 05 August 2002 | Frustration/Goodbye strip malls

It sits within my chest and is connected to my brain and sleeps most of the time. When it is awakened, I can usually convince it to be quiet, to wait until I am in more appropriate company, or better yet, when I am alone. Then I can let it escape without regret, let it travel through my vocal chords, my hands, my eyes and dissipate into the air. I'm almost always better off without it.

On Saturday, I went to the eye doctor to pick up some contacts and obtain my records, errand #135. It's tempting to take care of all of the errands I could possibly anticipate for the rest of my life, since my car and I are heading for imminent divorce.

The eye doctor is in a town called Cary, a mess of strip malls and parking lots crammed with SUVs and minivans, neighborhoods with identical pastel-painted houses, families with young kids named Hunter and Taylor. There aren't many reasons to go to Cary, apart from the eye doctor.

So. Thirty minutes to get there, a sign on the door that contradicts the regular business hours: closed, just because. I went to another branch in that same town, but it was unable to help me, just because. Today I drove back to the original office, arriving at 1 p.m., which, as you know, is the middle of the day. When I got to the door, a woman poked her head out and said, "We're closing for the next hour. [just because] We're having a meeting," and promptly shut the door in my face.

That experience (in combination with the speed bumps and the exitless parking lot and the Wal-Mart and the heat and the stress of moving) set off the alarm clock and woke my little friend. It was going to speak for me—I know it would have—but by the time 2:00 came, after I'd found some distraction in an air-conditioned place, it had already fallen back asleep. And without its input, I'd been transformed from a frog to a prince, back into a pleasant customer who doesn't complain.

***

Tonight is the going-away party.