The eye doc said she didn't like my eyeball pressure, so I told her I didn't much care for her shoes. She wrote me a referral to a specialist to see if I might have glaucoma in my future, which, I am pretty sure, as comas go, is not a type that I want.
The specialist's waiting room was packed, and people kept coming in as if word had gotten out that winning lottery tickets were sold there. A guy who came in after me finished his paperwork before me and promptly took the moral high ground, positioning himself in the only space it was possible to stand. I had to sit in a recently-vacated spot with the old people and the lame. I think I saw him smirking, but there were too many people to make out faces.
First I met with a tech who made me rest my chin on a thing and look in a viewer at a tiny red barn at the end of a long white fence row. I saw no cows. I hoped that was a good thing.
The tech put numbing solution on my eyes and dilating drops, and sent me to wait in a darkened vestibule. There were bad paintings on the wall. At least I think they were bad. Who's going to know?
Finally I was called, and as I left, I whispered to the only guy left there, "Make a break for it." He smiled vaguely, but I could tell I would be that night's story at dinner.
The doctor had me look up, down and all around while she shined blue, yellow and white light straight into my brain. There were no little red barns and cow-less fields, only hellfire and pain. Imagine having a job where you torture people all day but you aren't even running for office.
No glaucoma, but the doc advised annual checkups. As I headed back to the car, the world looked fuzzy, like a Hallmark special. Like "Anne of Green Gables" shot through a much-abused salad bar's sneeze guard.
Amazingly, with sunglasses I was able to drive home O.K., and I tell you this—Los Angeles has never looked better.
