Blog: Point Dume Plaza

Burt Ross

I hate when people ask me what I do with my time. I don’t really have a clue. I can tell you that last week I spent a good part (in truth, a lousy part) of my day searching for a parking space at the Point Dume Plaza. I circled and circled the premises until God finally blessed me with a parking stall.  By the time I finally found a home for my car, I had completely forgotten why I was at the shopping center in the first place.

I looked at my wallet and realized I was in desperate need of some greenbacks. I headed for the ATM machine at the Chase branch and pushed the buttons for some life support. Not trusting technology, I always wait for the ATM to deliver my cash, and then, of course, I count it. If I could only find a mistake just one time, I could die in peace.

After collecting my money, I walked over to the Dume Plaza Pharmacy to pick up a prescription for one of the many drugs which supposedly keep me in fine fiddle. Gloria handed me my medicine with the requisite warnings printed out. They read something like this, “If you suddenly stop breathing, lose your eyesight or have an unusual attraction to dogs, please contact your doctor immediately.” Why wouldn’t I call my doctor in any of these situations? If I go blind, I wouldn’t call my accountant — I can tell you that.

I was finally done with my errands, but I was not about to leave and give up the parking spot I worked so hard to secure. I decided to visit Bart Baker, my insurance advisor, whose office is situated at the Plaza. I had no questions to ask Bart about my insurance coverage, but perhaps he could recommend some good restaurants. Bart was not in, and so I went to the dry cleaners to see if Susie had any clothes for me to pick up.  She did not.

All my efforts were in vain. I had no choice but to get back in my car and to surrender my invaluable parking space. Sometimes life is unfair.