I woke up in pain and called the doctor. Went in, got examined, got them to phone the prescription into the pharmacy at Target Atlantic Terminal. (I like offering those little details that say, "Hey, Target folks, if you don't think this is true, go ahead and fucking sue me.") I didn't hear the conversation, but I think it went something like this:

He's a new customer? Oh, swell! Oh, gosh! Yes, we've certainly got it! Send him right in! I'll keep an eye out. Thanks for calling Target!

An hour later I get to Target, say "Prescription for Hans, Roman." The clerk goes to look, but shakes her head: nothing. She goes into the back and talks to the pharmacist. He leans in close, and they both start shooting me dirty looks. A couple minutes later she wanders back to me.

"He didn't feel comfortable filling this prescription for a new patient."

"That's certainly understandable," I say. "After all, this prescription is for ear drops. God knows what a blight illicit ear drops are in America today. They're the reason wayward celebs like Charlie Sheen and Lindsay Lohan have been seen exiting the bathrooms of fancy clubs with their heads held horizontal. Why, if these eardrops made it to the underground, I'd be able to walk more than a block or two without seeing some dude poking at his ears with his car keys."

She makes me fill out a form -- yeah, like the pharmacist's reluctance will be assuaged if he knows I'm not allergic to eggplant -- and tells me it'll be a 25 minutes wait. She directs me to the waiting area, but I decide I'd rather stand by the cash registers looking agitated, because that usually speeds things up. Fifteen minutes later the pharmacist comes over.

"This is so funny," he says. "You'll laugh! This is amazing. Really, this never happens. (PAUSE.) We're totally out of your ear drops."

I don't laugh. I call my doctor and discover it's after five so his office is closed. Then, I kind of yell. I yell while he says "Come back tomorrow and we'll have them!" I yell while he says "We can't transfer the prescription to another pharmacy because it's against the law." I yell while he says "There's another Target half an hour away that probably has them!" And I yell until a manager comes up and says, "Hey, go get them at the other Target and we'll give you a discount."

I say okay.

The pharmacist tells me the train goes straight to the other Target, so it doesn't sound too bad. Maybe an hour out of my way. But see, I thought he meant subway train, when in reality he meant Amtrak's Appalachian Snowliner. At the station, there are Russian families saying tearful goodbyes. Little Indian boys offer samosas from trays balanced on their turbanned heads. I take a seat, dodging chickens wandering down the aisles.

The seasons pass. The scenery changes. I see the Aurora Borealis, and we pass Dr. Zhivago's summer home. And when the train finally stops, we're in a desolate hellhole where, I swear to God, if those hip-hop hamsters in that Kia commercial took a wrong turn and ended up here, they'd wet their track suits and run squeaking away.

They've got the prescription. I got a significant discount. I'm happy, almost. But when I get home it's eight o'clock. I open the package and read the label.

Eye drops.

I'm beyond caring. I don't give a fuck. It's over. I use the drops, and the good news is, my ears have never looked so blue.