Where'd You Go, Bernadette: A Novel by Maria Semple Page A

(gooood luuuuck!). Step two,
back
into the angled parking space (who ever innovated
that
should be sentenced to the chokey). Step three, find a ticket dispenser that
isn’t
menacingly encircled by a stinky mosaic of beggars/bums/junkies/runaways. This requires step four, crossing the street. Oh, plus you’ve forgotten your umbrella (there goes your hair, which you stopped worrying about toward the end of the last century, so that’s a freebie). Step five, slide your credit card into the machine (small miracle if you’ve found one that hasn’t been filled with epoxy by some misguided malcontent). Step six, return to your car(passing aforementioned putrid gauntlet, who heckle you because you didn’t give them money on the way there—oh, and did I mention, they all have shivering dogs?). Step seven, affix the ticket to the proper window (is it passenger-side for back-in angle parking? or driver-side? I would read the rules on the back of the sticker but can’t because WHO THE HELL BRINGS READING GLASSES TO PARK THEIR CAR?). Step eight, pray to the God you don’t believe in that you have the mental wherewithal to remember what the hell it was you came downtown for in the first place.
    Already I wished a Chechen rebel would shoot me in the back.
    The compound pharmacy was cavernous, wood-paneled, and home to a few poorly stocked shelves. In the middle of it sat a brocade sofa, over which hung a Chihuly chandelier. The place made no sense at all, so already I was pretty much a wreck.
    I approached the counter. The girl was wearing one of those white headdresses that look like a nun’s hat without the wings. I have no idea what ethnicity that made her, but there are tons of them here, especially working at rental-car places. One of these days, I really need to ask.
    “Bernadette Fox,” I said.
    Her eyes met mine, then flashed mischief. “One moment.” She stepped onto a platform and whispered something to another pharmacist. He lowered his chin and examined me severely over his spectacles. Both he and the girl descended. Whatever was about to happen, they had decided beforehand it was a two-person job.
    “I received the prescription from your doctor,” said the gentleman. “It was written for seasickness, for a cruise you’ll be taking?”
    “We’re going to Antarctica over Christmas,” I said, “which requires crossing the Drake Passage. The statistics about the speed of the swirling water and the heights of the swells would shock you if I told you. But I can’t, because I’m hopeless when it comes to remembering numbers.Plus, I’m trying really hard to block it out. I blame my daughter. I’m only going because of her.”
    “Your prescription is for ABHR,” he said. “ABHR is basically Haldol with some Benadryl, Reglan, and Ativan thrown in.”
    “Sounds good to me.”
    “Haldol is an antipsychotic.” He dropped his reading glasses into his shirt pocket. “It was used in the Soviet prison system to break prisoners’ wills.”
    “And I’m only discovering it now?” I said.
    This guy was proving resistant to my many charms, or else I am without charm, which is probably the case. He continued. “It has some severe side effects, tardive dyskinesia being the worst. Tardive dyskinesia is characterized by uncontrollable grimacing, tongue protrusion, lip smacking…”
    “You’ve seen those people,” the Flying Nun gravely added. She held a contorted hand up to her face, cocked her head, then shut one eye.
    “You obviously don’t get seasick,” I said. “Because a couple of hours of that is a day at the beach by comparison.”
    “Tardive dyskinesia can last forever,” he said.
    “Forever?” I said weakly.
    “The likelihood of tardive dyskinesia is about four percent,” he said. “It increases to ten percent for older women.”
    I blew out really hard. “Oh, man.”
    “I spoke to your doctor. He wrote you a prescription for a scopolamine patch for motion sickness, and Xanax for