I telephoned Walgreen's yesterday afternoon with my order for a refill of my cholesterol medicine. Don't worry. It's only 20 milligrams of Zimvastatin to be taken once daily. My doctor, wise young Dr. Wise, is proactive. He's easing me into my twilight years this way, gradually loading me up with all the old-people drugs I'll someday need to take to keep on living. He figures this way their eventual strength and numbers won't hit me with a frightening start all of a sudden in another ten years down the line. Anyway, I set my pickup time for 10 o'clock this morning. That way, I could swing over to the Faulkner House Bookstore on my way home. I wanted to get my hands on a play-script I'm interested in rereading.
Everything went as I had planned, and soon I found myself standing outside that narrow, venerable old building where the old Nobel laureate had once lived, turning the same old doorknob that old Bill himself would have wrapped his drunken fingers around back in the 1920's. I stepped up and into the old foyer, now fusty with stacks and racks of books, and said to the elegant Southern lady working there, "I'm looking for the Sweet Bird of Youth."
She turned to me, rested her left hand across the top of her breast, and sighed, "Oh, God, so am I."
You'll never get that kind of reception at your neighborhood Barnes and Noble.
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