My eyeball is going to explode. That might be a slight exaggeration. My left eye is blood red on one side. Which makes me think a blood vessel has already erupted in my eye. Apparently, you can sneeze or cough violently, and a blood vessel pops in your eye and you look like you’re going to die. You are not going to die. The internet has a word for this condition. It’s a subconjunctival hemorrhage. The internet says this condition requires no treatment and goes away on its own within ten days.
Ack ack ack! Every time I look in the mirror at my eye, I’m pretty sure the internet is wrong. My eyeball is going to explode. I should rush over to the emergency room, stat, and have someone with a stethoscope and medical degree look it over. The internet doesn’t always know what its talking about. There’s room for doubt. Where there’s doubt, fear and confusion are sure to follow. If my wife were here and not on a business trip to Los Angeles, she’d look me in my bloody eye and tell me the truth. She doesn’t mince words. If she had bad news, she’d give it to me straight.
“Honey, I’ve looked your condition up online on some very reputable medical websites, and your left eye is going to explode. Now, I don’t want you to worry. You will still have the use of the right one. I have already ordered you a very tasteful patch for the empty socket you will soon have. It’s fashionable. You won’t look like a pirate. Or a gypsy. You just have to trust me on that. I want to hug you right now, but there’s a slight danger that eye shrapnel might come flying at me any second now from your exploding left eye. I will be over here if you need anything. Across the room. I am blowing you a kiss. I am. Squint with your good eye. The one that’s not about to explode. See. I really am.”
I am worried about my eye, so I distract myself by going to the Apple Store in Soho to get a new battery for my computer. I’ve been meaning to do this for some time, and I need a boost. A new battery might be just the ticket. But when I get to the Apple Store I’m told I have to make an appointment at the Genius Bar upstairs because you can’t just walk into the Apple Store with a computer that needs a new battery and have someone replace it on the spot. That would be too simple.
Upstairs, Cuba Gooding Jr. is sitting at a small conference table with two other people talking in front of a small audience about an upcoming movie he’s starring in. I totally do not care about Cuba Gooding Jr. at this moment. Unless he knows how to install a new battery in a MacBook Pro or obtained a degree in Ophthalmology at some point before he became a famous actor, he is dead to me. Also, didn’t he fritter away all the good will he earned in powerhouse performances in Jerry McGuire, Radio, Men of Honor and Red Tails in a lame movie on a boat (Boat Trip) and another lame movie driving a dogsled in Alaska (Snow Dogs)? What were those about? Somebody showed him the money, I suppose. But still. I harbor a grudge about his poor artistic choices. I know I shouldn’t. But I do.
It’s also clear I’m not as star struck as I was when I moved to Manhattan. A week ago I had the perfect opportunity to see Cameron Diaz sign her new book in a Barnes and Noble on the Upper East Side. I was so busy trying to get Avery through his geometry homework I forgot about the book signing. She may be an angel. But If Cameron Diaz doesn’t know all the relevant theorems and postulates that will help me prove two triangles are congruent, I can’t give her the time of day.
I make an appointment at the Genius Bar to come back in two days to have my battery replaced and leave Cuba Gooding Jr. in my wake trying to make everyone forget dog sleds and boats. I have to hurry home to stare in the mirror at my eye. I don’t want to miss it when it explodes.