I nearly killed a woman when I arrived at Walgreens. I was so deep into my memories of meeting Jack’s parents, I accidentally walked directly into an elderly woman. She didn’t fall to the ground, but she was mad. The stream of obscenities that came from her mouth was enough to make Lisa Lampanelli blush.
I might have engaged the woman under normal circumstances. Although our collision was my fault, there’s no excuse for cursing at strangers. It’s uncivilized, or as Hyacinth Bucket would say, “Not in my postal code!” This evening, however, I had a one track mind: Xanax. I apologized and proceeded to the pharmacy counter.
The line was a half-mile long. After what seemed like a short lifetime, it was finally my turn to place my order. “Avery B,” I said to the pharmacist. She typed a seemingly endless combination of letters into her computer and stared at the monitor. After a brief moment, she cocked her head to the side and pursed her lips. Never a good sign.
“We don’t have your prescription,” the pharmacist said. Ex-squeeze me? She went on to explain that my general practitioner— my brilliant general practitioner— my brilliant “has the morning off” general practitioner— failed to leave his license number when ordering the pills on my behalf.
“So call him,” I barked. I know, you guys. I’m not usually that snotty but—in case you haven’t been following—I was having one of those days. The pharmacist could clearly tell. In a very calm tone, she explained that my doctor’s office was closed for the day. I began to breathe heavily. “What does that mean?” I desperately asked. “It means,” she replied, “that I can’t fill your prescription until morning.
I suddenly felt light headed, and my knees began to give.
No comments:
Post a Comment