Greetings everyone! Once again, I have neglected my blog, but I have an assload of stories, and since I finished my test early and have a couple hours before my next class, I figured it was high time I updated this thing.
As many of my friends and coworkers know, I have since transferred from the cash registers to the pharmacy. It's fitting, considering I'm pursuing a career in nursing and not retail customer service. Another side benefit of working in the pharmacy is the large glass window that runs the length of the room, successfully blocking me from creepers and minimizing my contact with the general public that I love so dearly. I was anticipating a steep decline in the amount of creepers I would encounter, but as you will see in these two stories I have to share, I was gravely mistaken.
The first creature I will discuss is at the pharmacy on almost a daily basis picking up meds for his ailing mother. A noble act, certainly, but that does not excuse his overall vileness, nor the fact that he is probably living in her basement, mooching off her social security while surviving on Mountain Dew and WOW. He is a portly little man, maybe 40, who is balding yet still somehow insists on wearing a long, scaly ponytail down his back. It's not as epic as Devin Townsend's skullet, but it's close. He comes up to the window with his beady little eyes and stares intently while I gather his prescriptions. WHY do they always have to stare?
When I return to the register, he regards me deeply, then says in an intense, ominous tone, "It's not just you, is it?"
"Excuse me?" I say, giving him my surliest death glare.
"You have a cat hair on your shirt," he replies creepily. "You have a furry friend at home, don't you?"
"You could say that," I reply sarcastically, while he continues to stare.
SERIOUSLY? What the fuck? Somehow, the freak show managed to find me in the pharmacy. I think I'd be a little pissy with Mommy, who clearly failed in teaching him how to socialize in society.
The next freakazoid is (unfortunately) another regular at the pharmacy window. It's nearing the end of the night after a frightfully busy day, and I'm about at my wit's end when an enormous Jamaican woman wearing what looks like Jerry Seinfeld's puffy shirt with track pants appears at the window. She's getting about $500 worth of tramadol, a pain medication, for roughly eighteen bucks. I don't know about you, but that sounds like a hell of a bargain to me.
When I tell her the price, she spazzes out on me. "I don't have a copay!" she snarls. "I don't have to pay anything!"
"That's not what the insurance company says, ma'am," I say, trying my hardest not to reach through the window and smack her obviously fake red wig off her thick head. "Honestly, that's not a bad copay..."
"NO! I don't pay anything! I don't have any money with me and I need my medicine tonight. I'll get sick, and you really don't want that to happen," she roars threateningly. Oh, I see. She's one of those.
I pretend to mess around on the computer, even though there is nothing I can do. "Just give them to me," she says. "I don't have money with me because I never pay anything."
"Ma'am, I can't just give you a narcotic," I say as condescendingly as possible. "And because I'm not the decision-making power of your insurance company, I can't do anything."
At this point she has puffed herself up to literally fill the entire pick-up window. There is a line of people behind her, but there's no way in hell they're getting through the wall of Jamaican fury.
"Can you just loan me thirty bucks?" she asks me quietly. "I need my medicine tonight."
At this point, all I can do is laugh in her face. "Seriously? You know I can't do that. Plus, I work at Hellmart. Do I look like I have money?"
She tried this shit with the pharmacist, who at this point was cowering in the corner trying to make me deal with her. I all but grabbed him by the balls and threw him at her while I busily started filling prescriptions.
When she didn't get her way, shit got ugly. She managed to puff herself up even more, regarded us both with rage, and began cursing in some bizarre language.
Yep, that's right. I just got straight-up voo-doo'd.
If I end up dying some horrific death, or my organs fall out or something, tell my family and friends I love them dearly, and please make sure the "furry friend" I obviously have at home gets taken care of.
