The Pharmacy Bitch

I was at the Rite-Aid last night, picking up the muscle relaxer prescription I'd dropped off the evening before. Of course, as I go in the door, there's a neighborhood woman right behind me, and I mean, close enough to have her hand on my ass. Yeah, it's cold outside, but let's keep that comfort zone, m'kay?

Mid-50s, I guess, short and compact. I hold the door for her, and of course she doesn't say thank you. Just crowds right behind me, still after my rear end as far as I can tell. As soon as we hit the vestibule, she sprints for the aisles, brushing me as she rushes by with no words of excuse. I already know what she's up to, and I opt to take my time. I can hear her rushed clack-clack as she heads back, beating me to the counter easily. Whatever, you petty twat. She even glances back at me--in what, gloating victory? To see my reaction?--and when she turns I'm staring straight into her eyes, blank-faced, telling her silently, "I know what you're all about, you clumsy, callous, selfish, pathetic little shit." Whatever.

But the main event is not the pharmacy racer, it's the trashy, rail-thin loser having a coniption about at the counter. She's got her gold premium-knockoff bag, with the ridiculous oversize buckles, the tacky grommets, and sparkly junk all over it, overlflowing with papers, a keyring that would make a high school janitor proud, a gigantic wallet bulging with more scraps of paper, all kinds of meaningless garbage, and it's all over the counter. She's in some ratty coat, a worn thing in some kind of butterscotch harris tweed, with with requisitely ridiculous faux fur cuffs and collar. Straggly straight hair, not recently cut, matching ratty.

Arms crossed high in a clear signal of passive-aggressiveness, she's being really loud and belligerent, and the manager (an overworked, surly young fella who barely conceals his utter contempt for every customer through the place) is at the register, obviously working her problem(s). Apparently it's confirmation of the prescription. That and paying for it. And the form of payment. And a payment that some system somewhere doesn't like the look of. Both are cocked up thoroughly, and to my disappointment it's unclear if she's at fault or if the pharmacy has screwed up. Given her attitude and approach, I have to think it's her that's the problem. She's ranting and raving at all five folks behind the counter, speaking to no one in particular, loud enough to be heard on the other side of the store. All kinds of highly aggressive yet meaningless statements like, "Is there some kind of PROBLEM with my order!?" and "I'm not going to TAKE this anymore!" and "I'm NOT coming back HERE a third time!" Lots of sarcasm and derision loaded into every syllable. It's as much a show for us waiting as it is a direct complaint to the staff, of course.

The staff, to their credit, don't bite at all, just remain silent, continuing with their work while Manager Boy works the issue. The twat is trying to goad someone, anyone behind the counter into a fight, and to their credit, none of them are getting into it. And it was really getting to her--no vindication and not the confrontation she wants. I liked that part a lot. Good on ya, Rite-Aid, if this is how you've trained your people.

It was all I could do to not make a quiet comment like, "Why don't you just calm down, shut up, and HELP these people fix the problem?" But I just stood there and watched her. She even turned around to check out her audience, and she got the same stare I gave the line-racing idiot, the direct and unwavering stare I reserve for only the most obnoxious bastards, in this case bastardettes.

So one of the ladies behind the counter waves me forward, and I make sure I ask if I'm next, given the histrionics going on within arm's length. Yes, I'm up. The girl gets my stuff, and I misread the payment line, thinking it was a total of $34 for some Methocarbamol (or generic equivalent). I asked nicely for her to check it again, that I've got two separate insurance sources, and I didn't think it shouldn't be so much. She did, confirming that the price was right. I told her okay, no problem, thanks for checking, I'll take your word for it, and although it's more expensive than I figured it would be, you know this process better than I do.

I go up to the front of the store and pay, and at the counter I happily see that the cost is $3 and not the $34 I'd misread at the pharmacy counter--very cool. So I go back to the pharmacy, and right next to the still-standing-and-ranting ratty dipshit, I tell the ladies behind the counter, "Hey, you were right and I was wrong. I was reading the wrong line. You guys had it right all along and I just didn't see it myself; I wasn't paying attention. Thanks for helping me out." That was, of course, well received, with both of the girls smiling, and giving sidelong glances to Angry Ratty Dipshit, all of three feet away. They both said thank you for telling them that, and I added, more than loud enough, "Sure thing, ladies. I can see you really need it this evening." Their smiles got even bigger. I didn't even look at Ranting Ratty Dipshit; no need to engage. As I spun to leave, I was almost hoping she'd turn on me for the insult.

I headed on out, past the neighborhood denizens loading up on their evening cases of Milwaukee's Best and 2-gallon bottles of Gallo. I swear, working the front counter there must be so horribly depressing. Every time I go there, for even a ten-minute visit to pick up a prescription or to buy a toothbrush, the local alkies are so painfully obvious. Four in the afternoon, and it's five packs of cigs, Almond Roca, and a case of Miller Lite. I'm so glad I don't work there.