July 12, 2005
I went to bed last night with a headache that felt like it might be terminal. And I woke up with it, too. A few hours into my conference my brain was ricocheting around my skull like a rubber ball and I had to make my way back to the drugstore at which I bought my AC adapter last night.
I could tell I looked bleary.
“Most cashiers out there are completely ignorant,” said a cashier in the drugstore, who, against all improbability, was named Ulric. He said this to a couple from somewhere far away buying laundry detergent. Until then I wasn’t aware that there was an elite brotherhood of skilled cashiers that stood apart from the slack-jawed masses of regular ones.
I swallowed a fistful of ibuprofen and waited for the internal banging to stop so I could think again. I tried to take a photograph of a guy washing windows on a building, but was stopped by a strident but probably well-meaning gentleman who insisted I was erring by shooting into the light.
“I want him silhouetted,” I protested lamely, not realizing until a half hour later that I’d somehow set my camera to overexpose by two shots, so anything I might have photographed would have looked ass.