The Encounter

The drive to W@lM@rt, while in reality a total of 8 miles, seemed to stretch on forever.  I slumped forward, eyes running, praying that the drive would end or that Enemy Fire would rain down and just TAKE ME OUT. It was miserable.

Finally arriving at the Mart of Despair, I smiled slightly at the prospect of Rock Star Parking.  Granted, it was 1:15 on a Wednesday (a school day at that), but I was looking for any kind of perk at that point.  I opened my door and shuffled slowly to the entrance.

I made my way to the pharmacy, only to find not one, not two, but THREE LINES.  I wound my way towards the back, praying I wouldn't die before exiting the store.  I was relieved to see that the shortest line was for prescription Drop Off.  I was less relieved to see that I was behind an ornery cursing geriatric man, who made sure that the pharmacist was not only aware of her gender, but also of her race.  She did not take kindly to his prose, and firmly (yet professionally) put him in his place.  He responded by calling her lazy and stupid, then stormed off in a huff.

Then it was my turn.  She glanced up, eyes full of fire, waiting.  I stumbled to the desk, turned in my paperwork and waited.  She muttered something (I assume, as I now was struggling to hear out of EITHER ear), and pointed to the back of the store.  I politely begged her pardon, and she repeated herself.  I shook my head, apologizing.  Visibly ANGRY, she yelled, "IT IS GOING TO BE A WHILE. WALK AROUND THE STORE AND COME. BACK. LATER!"  Turning red, I apologized and explained that I wasn't trying to be rude; I simply couldn't hear.  [The prescription was for a high level decongestant, with instructions to take FOUR A DAY.]  She calmed down a little, and mouthed that it should be about 30 minutes or so.

I somehow managed to waste thirty minutes, and made my way back to the pharmacy.  There were now FOUR lines to the pharmacy register, which was being manned by what appeared to be a teenager stolen from the main road outside.  While I'd like to now quote the trite line about not judging books by their covers, well...I'll just go ahead and say that I truly failed that day.

I am used to my W@lM@rt employees being dressed - head to toe - in beige and blue.  This employee appeared to be taking Dress Code Rebellion to an entirely new level.  Not only was she not wearing the Company Colors, she wasn't even wearing the same type of outfit.  She was dressed, head to toe, in bright pink.  A sweat suit, to be exact.

As she smiled and beckoned the next customer forward, another employee shot out from behind the counter, yelling her thanks.  Apparently, due to a short staff, that employee had been without a bathroom break for HOURS.  Sweat suit girl wasn't even on the clock; she was just helping out.  [She is, for the record, employed there...]

Fifteen minutes later, Sweat Suit Girl beckoned me to the front.  The Other Employee still hadn't returned (probably being treated for a kidney infection...), and the line behind me was now stretched halfway into towels and housewares.  I approached the counter, quietly giving my birth date, zip code and a blood sample from my first born pet.  She entered the information into the computer, shook her head, and asked me to reconfirm the information.  She turned around to the bank of FIVE PHARMACISTS behind the sub-counter and asked a question.  A quick shuffle through the piles told them that, 50 odd minutes later, they still hadn't reached MY PRESCRIPTION.  Sweat Suit Girl looked at me with sudden concern, and kindly noted that I should probably sit down.  I was apparently now a lovely shade of grey, swaying in circles due to equilibrium issues.  I was told that it shouldn't be much longer; it should only be another 10 minutes or so...

Now stationed on a bench facing the counter, I fought exhaustion and pain, trying to amuse myself to pass the time.  I should have been content with boredom and frustration...

I heard him before I saw him.  In truth, I saw the reactions of the FIVE PHARMACISTS before I saw him.  At the first sound of his voice, I witnessed five simultaneous looks of 'Oh, Dear Lord" and five people simultaneously DUCKING behind the waist high counter that separates the drugs from the customers.  He half skipped, half pranced around the corner, squealing "I SEE you!" to the pharmacists.  One turned to the back and climbed a ladder (presumably to jump off it), one ran to the phone in an attempt to avoid speaking to him.  The other three remained where they were, wearing stoic and determined expressions.

This man, who was maybe 5'5" and a buck twenty five soaking wet, danced to the counter and sang out "It's almost three! You're supposed to have my medication ready! The doctor called it in! I was there! It's only supposed to be a twenty or thirty minute wait! I waited before I came here! He called it in over an hour ago!" He hopped back and forth as he sang this, blissfully unaware that he had just cut about forty people off in line.  The Geriatric Bigot was the first in line...

Sweat Suit Girl, who had been nothing but a haven of professional and kind behavior up to this point, set her jaw and glared at him.  "You know the rules; you WAIT YOUR TURN" was all she said, while pointing to the back of the line.  Jumpy Guy contorted his face into a grimace, tears brimming in his eyes.  "But it was only supposed to be twenty minutes and I waited! I NEED my MEDICINE!"

Sweat Suit Girl softened her expression slightly and said, "Darlin' there are a lot of really sick people right now.  We have to help them, too."  Then, pointing at me, she said, "She feels really bad, and SHE has been waiting for over an hour.  You don't see HER throwing a tantrum, do you?  Why don't you sit down and rest your feet? It should only be a few more minutes.  I really AM sorry, darlin'."

Jumpy Guy turned, eyes focused on me.  I sat there quietly and smiled slightly.  He jump/hopped toward me, apparently determined to mimic whatever I was doing.  He stood before me, inhaled rapidly, and then said the following IN ONE BREATH:

"I'm-sorry-for-cutting-in-line-I-know-that-was-rude-but-they-said-twenty-or-thirty-minutes-it's-been-more-than-that-and-I-hurt-can-I-sit-with-you-please?!" I nodded, moving my purse to my lap, all the while wondering if I should have just played the deaf card. He pointed at my purse, eyebrows together, and said "Your-purse-is-covered-in-skulls-do-you-like-dead-things?"

I shook my head, noting that the purse was made by a good friend of mine. "Why-did-she-give-you-skulls-and-not-flowers-you're-a-girl!" I noted that, while this was true, I wasn't exactly Flower People. As I said this, I briefly wondered why I cared what he thought and why I was engaging in conversation with a guy that couldn't stay still and was likely...OFF.

I glanced at the pharmacy counter quickly, and watched as Sweat Suit Girl ran toward the Line of Five Pharmacists.  She pointed at me, speaking rapidly, and pointed at a pile of papers.  *sigh*.  My prescription still hadn't been filled.  She raised her voice quickly and said, "Ms. Renn?  Thank you so much for your patience.  Your prescription is next."  Ah, a pity fill.  I was okay with this.

Geriatric Bigot, still at the front of the line next to me, began yelling that HE was there before me, and that HIS [redacted] prescription had better [redacted, redacted, redacted, redacted] be filled before mine if that stupid [redacted] pharm tech knew what was good for her.  I expected the PT to jump over the counter and start her own episode of Jerry Springer, but she remained calm and professional.  I have no idea how she did it, either.

Meanwhile, Jumpy Guy was sitting next to me...STILL. TALKING. It went something like this:

"I-really-really-need-my-medication..." [At this point, I'm thinking anti-psychotics would be nice for either of us. Perhaps both...]

[inhale] "But-you-need-to-understand-my-car-was-involved-in-one-of-those-drag-and-drop-schemes-where-people-pull-out-in-front-of-you-and-slam-on-their-brakes-my-old-lady-and-me-were-cut-off-by-some-illegals-trying-to-make-off-with-our-insurance-it's-a-scam..."

[inhale]"...It's-been-more-than-twenty-minute-but-I'm-Jack-Jones-is-your-name-really-Renn?"

I nodded, mid-regret, praying for locusts or the Black Plague to hit.

[inhale]"...and-those-stupid-[redacted]Mexicans-won't-get-a-penny-from-me-I'm-disabled-cuz-my-brother-shot-me-in-the-head-ten-years-ago-cuz-I-was-the-only-son-that-didn't-end-up-in-jail-and-he-was-jealous-cuz-I-was-the-smart-one-and-momma-loved-me-best..."

[inhale]"...my-car-turned-over-and-almost-exploded-after-it-flipped-the-old-lady-and-me-got-out-but-were-dragged-over-300-feet-of-gravel-and-glass-by-those-[redacted]s..."

[inhale]"...the-doctors-say-that-the-gravel-and-glass-was-too-embedded-in-my-arms-to-mess-with..."

(Insert a brief pause as he pulled up his sleeves to show what could only be described as rug burn, nails and a nightmare of rocks and glass under the skin)

[inhale]"...docs-said-they'd-have-to-let-the-rocks-and-glass-work-their-way-out-on-their-own..."

[inhale]"...it-ain't-just-my-arms-either-it's-my-legs-and-back-and-stuff..."

[inhale]"...I-said-screw-that-I-can't-wait-me-and-the-ole-lady-are-doin'-what-momma-used-to-tell-me..."

[inhale]"...all-I-need-is-some-good-tweezers-and-a-tub-of-rubbing-alcohol-to-soak-in..."

[inhale]"...and-I-really-need-my-methadone..."

I was rapidly reaching my breaking point, unsure of whether I was going to cry from pain, horror or suppressed laughter.  As I battled these emotions, Sweat Suit Girl swooped in (figuratively speaking) and gave an unexpected Sitcom Ending: "Ms. Renn?  Thanks so much for your patience.  Your prescription is FINALLY ready!"

I jumped up, all but skipped to the counter, and paid for my prescription.  As I exited the store, I heard SSG raise her voice direct it to The Jumpy Guy:

"...Thank you for your patience, Jack.  It should only be about ten more minutes..."