Four Horsemen

So I was just visiting my local pharmacy to pick up the usual monthly supply of happy pills when Nurse Ratched behind the counter apparently decides to test my prescription to make sure it's strong enough by fucking with my head, draining whatever vestige of optimism I had in the tank today (whether organic or brought-to-you-by-Wyeth):

Ratched (seated behind the counter): "What do you want?"

Me: "I'm picking up a prescription refill I called in yesterday."

Ratched: "It's today."

Me: "Excuse me?"

Ratched: "It's today, it's not yesterday."

Me (confused): "Isn't that always the case?"

Ratched: "It wasn't yesterday."

Me: "Huh?"

Ratched: "We don't keep them around."

Me: "I do this every month - can you check the bin?"

Ratched: "It's not there, we don't keep them around.  You'll need to call it back in."

Me: "Can you just check the bin?  If it's not there, I'll wait for the refill."

Ratched: "We're not taking waiters right now."

Me: "What?  Please, just check the bin."

Given the loopy nature of this non sequitur-laced exchange, I looked around expecting to see Milo Minderbinder (or perhaps Charlie Kaufman).  Instead, I found the Lord.

The man behind me was decked out in full-on Jesus attire, complete with long hair, beard, sandals and a dark afghan poncho that stood in nicely for a biblical-grade flowing robe.  He smelled biblical too, or so I imagined since I don't recall any mention of showers or deodorant in the good book.

Mr. J. H. Christ seemed sympathetic to my plight, but not to the point of using his godly powers to smite my adversary.  Maybe turn her into something useful like a pillar of salt or a pint of Cherry Garcia.  Clearly he was more concerned about getting some antibacterial crucifixion cream (damn rusty nails!) or perhaps some anti-psychotic medication to quiet the voices.  Maybe both.  He wouldn't want to antagonize the person standing between him and his meds, even if she might just be Lucifer's bitchy sister.

I turned back to the surreal exchange I was having with Her Satanic Majesty of Pharmacopia.  Before reengaging, I first craned my neck in an attempt to see beyond the glare of the evil eye she was shining my way beneath her obscenely thick, arched eyebrows.  No sign of any pharmacists working in back. Isn't it illegal to leave all these dangerous drugs solely in the hands of  Susie Cash Register here, without licensed supervision?  If I was the squealing type, I'd drop a dime on them to the DEA. 

But I just wanted - no, needed - my particular drugs, so back to the matter at hand.

Perhaps I was asking in the wrong way. Maybe she fancies herself some sort of Soup Nazi derivative (a Pharmaceutical Eva Braun).  Possibly I didn't follow proper protocol.  "No pills for you!  Come back in three days!  Next!"

So in the spirit of the Soup Nazi, I tried another tact: "Effexor, S. Buzzard, quantity 90, ordered 02/25."  No dice. "That was yesterday. It's the 26th."  

My last strategy was to just be annoyingly repetitious until she caved.

"Where is the pharmacist?"  "She's not here right now."   "Yes, when will she be back?"  "Later."   "She's at lunch?"  "She's not here."   "Can you please check the bin?  Please?  Please?"  "It's not there, it would have been put back."  "Okay, but maybe it was put back into the bin.  Can you check it?  Please?  Please?"

I was persistent and finally Little Miss Sunshine meandered the twenty feet down to the bin of prescriptions waiting to be claimed.  Lo and behold, mine was among them, as I had strongly suspected all along.  She seemed stunned.

"It's not supposed to be here.  They're supposed to put them back. You're lucky.  This time."

Now I know perfectly well that being one day tardy doesn't result in a prescription's expulsion from the pick-up bin back into the bottle (I don't even think they are legally allowed to put the stuff back).  I've been a week late lots of times when I called in refills from the road traveling for work.  Maybe with a new crew (I didn't recognize this evil witch), there are some new rules here.  Maybe they do put them back now. Maybe, this one time, something more was at work.

Indeed.  I looked back and Jesus gave me a knowing smile as if to say, "It is accomplished. You're welcome, my son."   Divine intervention?  Oh, God, though - that smell!  Christ needs a bath!

As if on cue, the Lord started convulsing in a fit of gags, coughs, half-heaves, and slobber, pulling out one of the nastiest "handkerchiefs" I've ever seen to mop up the excess "juice" spilling over into his beard.   Something else caught my eye across the front of his dark afghan poncho. Bugs. Lots of them. Little fuckers - like fleas - crawling free-range in his own little patch of Afghanistan.

The Jesus-did-it smile disappeared suddenly and his holy eyes rolled back into his head as he marched up to the counter.  He needed drugs of some sort pretty badly, that much was clear from his tone to her: "Ahh, mmm, Pick up, mmmehrerh, for Sid Marvin, Yes, err, emmmm, no waiting here!! Watch out now!"  I can only imagine what might happen if Sister (Un)Christian gives him any shit (the picture on the right might provide a clue).  She was staring back at him, wordless.  I wasn't waiting around for the big show.

I grabbed my meds quickly and hightailed it out of there.

I half expected to run into the Four Horsemen galloping down the antacid aisle as I hurried toward the front door.  At the very least I figured I'd spot Kirk Cameron and his Left Behind film crew hard at work by the photo counter, working their way toward the pharma apocalyptic epicenter in the back, careful not to step into the fiery pit over which my counter gal ruled with pitchfork in hand.


When I got back home I thought to myself, "Self, we need to change our pharmacy."  God and Satan can do battle there but I'm moving on.

Remember, though: Sid Marvin Saves. Amen.