It was still bothering me when I got to the office. I was still trying to deny it was happening. I sat down at my desk and opened my messenger bag. Oh crap, really? I'd left some files and my legal pad at Ward 93. Crap. Crappity crap-crap crap.
Gotta go back. There goes my lunch hour. And that's going to be two more rides on the eternally charming 9 San Bruno. This is just great.
I bought a five-dollar chicken & cheese sandwich at the Martha & Bros. on the corner and bolted it angrily on my way to the bus stop. Still trying to ignore that arm. I remembered all the times I had laughed, ha ha!, at similar sensations in my right arm. Ha! Right arm pain? That signifies nothing! Ha, I tell you.
I was able to get into Ward 93 and retrieve my stuff, although I did have to convince some lady there that I was legit and not a client. "There's some terribly confidential material in there." "I understand, ma'am. That's what I'm here for." Ramona at Reception vouched for me.
Back on the bus, I had the sudden realization that if anybody else was having shooting pains in his left arm, I would have told him to take an aspirin, right now, and not be an idiot. I got off at Walgreens and did just that. Whatever was going on between my left arm and my imagination eventually quit doing that. I hope that when I do start having an infarction, I'll remember this.
Chicken sandwich, sheesh. Contraindicated. What a douche.