I’ve read where some writers on their death beds will ask for a pad and pen to record their last thoughts and impressions of this oh so fragile mortal stage we tread. Writers write. And damn near everything is material to be harvested. By the time you read this there will probably be at least one if not more rushed books recounting some aspect of the Great New Orleans Flood of ’05. And we’ve all heard stories of heroism and depravity, horror and comedy.

There was a first-hand account about a father using only his nerve and wit to hold off armed robbers to protect his teenaged children, and having a National Guardsman level his assault weapon on him when he went to him for help. About the kid who led other kids to safety and so many tales of how the human spirit refuses to be crushed. And there were reports of tenacious criminal types starting meth labs out of dishpans in abandoned houses. Figuring what? That the folks helping with recovery would need a pick me up?

Anyway this goes to another point: a writer doesn’t get a day off. That even as a situation of epic or small proportions unfolds, even if you’re in the thick of it, there’s some part of you standing outside of it and mentally recoding notes and impressions. Let’s take for example a call from my wife during a recent breakfast meeting I was having. My wife, Gilda, was driving and it was increasingly hard for her to keep her eyes open. Her eyes were burning in her head. Nerve gas attack? Sure, that notion did flash through my mind. Fortunately, she has a more stable presence of mind. She managed to get home.

We thought it might be some sort of allergic reaction to her new contact lenses. Okay, that sounded right. The next thing I know she’s heading to her optometrist in a cab, and I’m to meet her there. Did I mention the pain? The pain in both her eyes has increased. It’s excruciating.

The optometrist puts some antibiotic drops in her eyes and sends us down the street a few blocks to this ophthalmologist. And this is where it gets good. This dude’s office is right off the boulevard, on the second story of a shop worn building that includes a cut rate dentist’s sign – all straight out of a David Goodis novel. I’m getting a funny vibe, but my sweetie’s in pain. At this point the daylight is making her damn near blind so she can’t see that well, and can’t tell the condition of the joint we’re going into. But where else can I go?

Upstairs, the front office of this guy’s place fits the building. Beat. Plastered on the walls are all kinds of certificates framed in dingy glass and the front counter done up swell in cheap paneling. Though they do have a slew of magazines in plastic holders running the length of the counter. And the people who are waiting to be examined have that semi-defeated look as I’m sure they would rather be somewhere else, only their Medicaid won’t pay for a real physician. There’s something very Jim Thompsonesqe about all of this. Well maybe this doctor is a real man of the people, saving money on décor ‘cause he puts his resources into the care of his patients.

And maybe not.

The first time we see this chap he sticks his head in the dark examining room I’m waiting with my wife in and he turns on the TV and leaves as she’s asking him to put something in her eye to ease the pain. Huh? No word, nothing. He turns on the TV and goes back out. Was the idea here being that it would preoccupy our time? Anyway, he comes back and I go out. I’m sitting in the waiting room and an individual comes in selling bootleg DVDs out of a black garbage bag to the receptionists who know him. I’m not kidding.

Ten minutes later this so-called professional is done. He’s taped gauze to my wife’s eyes and has proscribed some pain pills. What’s wrong with her eyes? He don’t know. Ain’t got a clue. She’s to come back tomorrow and he’s hoping, hoping mind you, that "she’ll be cured."

So yeah, I’m ready to throttle him. Gilda can’t because she really can’t see now. But there is that other part of me that knows that if my wife gets through this, this scene will inspire a recreation in some fiction of mine. It’s too juicy to be ignored.

Needless to say, we saw another ophthalmologist who examined her for an hour or so and proscribed useful medicine. Her eyes are fine now. But one day I shall have my revenge on this clown in the beat-to-hell office.

I guess that's it, writing is the best revenge.