August 2011. Hoffman Estates, Illinois. I’m waiting for my annual checkup at the glaucoma doctor’s office, reading a back issue of Chicago magazine. The small waiting room is about three-quarters full. As usual, I’m the youngest patient in there, by a couple of decades.
An old man enters, signs in, and sits down next to me. He says, to nobody in particular, “She sure likes to pack ’em in.” He pauses for a beat. “Well, I guess if you don’t like it, you can get a different doctor.” Another beat. “If you can find one.”
I think to myself, he’s a whiner, but I’ve got to appreciate a whiner who can cover all the bases like that, single-handed.