The Optometrist

I went to the optometrist today. I had an appointment at ten a.m. I don’t like to make appointments earlier than that. I know myself. I ‘m not your quintessential morning person.

Yesterday afternoon, I received a phone call, but I didn’t recognize the number so I let it go to voicemail. I didn’t check the voicemail until later in the evening. A woman had left me a message. She was from my optometrist’s office.

“This a reminder that you have an appointment tomorrow at nine a.m. Thank you.” Click.

It was too late to call her back and straighten out the matter. I figured I’d show up at ten. After all, it was their mistake.

I had a restless slept. I was full of nerves. My optometrist appointment was on my mind. My last three experiences with optometrist's were not pleasant. There was a sleazy quality to them. I felt like I was being had, and I was. I had a hard time getting answers with regard to price structure. When they did answer, the information was vague. There was mass manipulation taking place. I felt the presence of dishonesty. On all three occasions, I tried to escape, but couldn’t.

There was a Russian optometrist that tried every way imaginable to separate me from my money. He fooled me with his sexy Russian assistant. She was beautiful. When I walked into the Russian’s office a bad feeling over came me. I sat down and then got up to leave when the pretty Russian assistant picked up on my intent. I should have run out of there, but I didn’t. They took me, and my insurance for all we had.

My last optometrist was a Jazz trumpet player. He trapped me with music talk, and then charged me extra for lenses, and frames, and an eye drop test of some sort. When I walked out of there I felt cheated and I couldn’t see from the eye drop test.

“Your eyes are going be a little sensitive,” he told me.

The phone rang at nine-twenty this morning. It was the optometrist.

“You have an appointment at nine a.m.”

“No, it was for ten.”

“No it wasn’t.”

“Yes it was. I know myself. I never schedule appointments before ten if I can help it.”

“Oh we have nine written down. I’m not sure if I can fit you in today. Lets see, can you come in at twelve-forty-five?”

“No, we can reschedule.”

Somehow at great inconvenience the woman squeezed me in at ten. When I arrived, the place was empty. I was their only customer. I filled out the requisite paper work and sat down to read a magazine. I barely had time to look at the pictures when I heard my named called. I turned to see who it was. It was the optometrist. She was wearing a white lab coat and was the most beautiful Asian woman I've ever seen.   

Mule Train

Good morning. I was away on business for the night. I made a U-turn on highway 15 and got my wheels stuck in the sand of the Mojave desert, I called AAA and a man with a mule train pulled me out. He said gas was too expensive to use his tow truck. I hope you slept well. 

The Coyote

There’s a coyote in the neighborhood. I’m not sure if he’s watching me, or if I’m watching him, but I’ve run into him a few times in the last month. The first time I saw him, her, it’s hard to tell if it’ a male or female, it was morning. I was sipping my coffee when I saw something move outside. It was the coyote sniffing about. I stood perfectly still and watched him through the window. He raised his hind leg and started to scratch. He had flees, I moved ever so gently to get a better look at him, and he took off running when he hard the sound of wood under my feet. I saw him a few days later running up the hill. He had something in his mouth, a squirrel or some kind of rodent. I couldn’t tell he was moving so fast.

One night I came home drunk and heard an awful murder. I figured the coyote finally caught up with the possum that was running free range in the backyard. I saw the possum one night sniffing my barbeque. He’d come out once the sun went down. He was sneaky, but not that sneaky. I could hear him trudging through the leaves. I was trying to sleep it off when I heard the murder. There were two or three coyotes. They ganged up on the possum. The possum was cornered. I probably could have put a stop to it. For a moment I imagined my drunk-self waving my arms and yelling hey, hey, hey, but realistically, I was in no condition to stop a murder.

            I saw the coyote again yesterday. I was walking up the hill and he was walking up another hill, and our eyes met. He ran into a field when he saw me. I walked over to the field just to let him know that I was on to him. He was sitting in the shade under a tree. I looked at him, and he looked at me. I walked away from him feeling somewhat righteous. A short time later I was at my computer when I heard the leaves crackling outside. I knew it was the coyote. Sure enough there he was outside my window. I saw him but he didn’t see me. He was sniffing around. I had been outside racking leaves earlier in the day. He was sniffing me. He was right at the spot where I was racking. He sniffed a few more times and shook his head and put his paw to his nose to wipe the scent away. He didn’t like the scent of me. Why I've never.    

The Cowboy

Yesterday, I met a retired cowboy at a bar after rehearsal. I’m playing bass in a cover band, classic rock, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Hendrix, just the good stuff. The band rehearses on Saturday’s and after rehearsal the drummer and I have a few beers in Pasadena. We were sitting at the bar when an older fellow sitting next to us started talking. He was slamming down Tequila shots and after a couple of shots he was feeling no pain and started talking. He gave us a lesson on how to ride a bull. I don’t foresee myself riding a bull anytime soon, but if I should, I’ll know to look at the bull’s shoulders, not his head, and not to think too much. I didn’t get the cowboys name, but he told us that he use to meditate before his rides. He used a visualization method to help him through, but mostly he didn’t think too much. It made perfect sense to me not to think too much, that’s when you get in trouble when you think too much.

The cowboy abandoned the subject of rodeos and started in on the game of golf, one of my least favorite subjects. He lifted his arm in pain and said he tore a muscle in his shoulder playing golf. "I love the game," he said. I sat there in silence. It struck me as ironic that the cowboy bull rider hurt himself swinging a golf club.