An Uneventfully Eventful Thursday

Thursday morning, I made my weekly trip to Publix. This week, in addition to the groceries, I needed to have a prescription filled. When I picked it up, the woman behind the counter said, "Your insurance doesn't cover this. It's normally $168.34, but we're giving you a discount: it will be $37.85."

I paid, well, I promised to pay the credit card company the $37.85 and proceeded to Check Out Lane 4 to pay for the groceries. I didn't pay much attention to the clerk ringing up my haul; my mind was on drugs. Giving a guy in a wheelchair a discount is a wonderful thing, but a 75% discount? Come on. The woman had to be joking about the actual cost. But if she was, that smile, that goofy grin which should have shot across her face when she saw the relief come across mine wasn't there.

Back in my apartment, I looked at all the information that came with the small bottle of bills. It showed the price at $37.85, there was nothing about how much the insurance paid, and there was no mention of Publix Pharmacy's generous discount. Thirty days from now I'll need to have the script refilled. What will the price be then? One hundred sixty-eight dollars, or thirty-eight dollars? I'll let you know in a month.

Long about one o'clock that afternoon, as I was headed outside, my next-door neighbor was coming in. "How did you like the Christmas card?" she asked.

"What Christmas card?"

"The one I put on your door."

"There wasn't a Christmas card on my door."

"I'm sure I put one there. I walked all over the building last night, taping Christmas cards on my friends' doors. Maybe I missed you. I was awfully tired."

"Well, thank you so much. I really do appreciate the gesture. It's so nice to have friends."

"Don't worry," she said. "You're going to get a card from me."

An hour or so later, hungry for a cookie, I set out for the Nook. Going out my door, I noticed an envelope taped on it. It was the card my neighbor promised me. Then, as I was on my way down the long hallway after supper, another woman who lives a few doors down from me handed me a card.

"How nice. Thank you," I said.

"Oh, that's not from me. Someone put it in my box by mistake."

When I opened the card, I discovered it was from my next-door neighbor. From no card to two cards in just a few hours. When I saw my neighbor Friday morning, I thanked her for both cards.

"Both cards?"

"Yea, the one you put on my door yesterday afternoon. And on my way back from supper last night, Ruth gave me a card. She said someone must have put in her box by mistake."

"I didn't put any cards in the boxes. I probably dropped it, and someone spotted it on the floor and put it in the wrong box by mistake."

Thursday evening, after watching Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, I started reading The Book of Lies, by Brad Meltzer. I got the book from the library here at the old-folks home, hoping to find a book I could get lost in. When I got to page 18, The Book of Lies took me to a very familiar place: the Conneaut Community Arts Center on a Thursday morning eight or ten years ago.

Chapter Three begins:
"'Cal . . . I need help!' Roosevelt screams.
My tenth-grade English teacher once told me that throughout your life, you should use only three exclamation points. That way, when you put one out there, people know it's worth it."

In the Arts Center, at our weekly class, eight of us are seated around a table listening to Suzanne Byerly, our teacher, read from the things we wrote. Inevitably, somewhere in our scribblings, there is an exclamation point. When she reaches it, Suzanne stops, looks at the person who wrote the piece and says, "You do know, we're each allotted just three exclamation points in our lives."

The writing class was an outstanding experience, and I am indebted to Mary Lewis for getting me involved in it. Suzanne was a wise and wonderful teacher, and the others in the class were all friendly, helpful, encouraging, and great company. I can't thank Mr. Meltzer enough for taking me back there for a few minutes Thursday night.