Ways to Lose It
The pharmacist stared me in the eyes. Her eyes were blue and cold. She asked my name, made me repeat it phonetically, then had me spell it out as though it were impossibly exotic. She frowned scanning the computer screen for my order. I had called in my refill for citalopram. I’d been on it for six months to help combat crippling anxiety attacks. The pharmacist brushed a strand of her blonde hair from her face and pursed her lips.
“Is something the matter?” I asked.
“Are you aware of the side-effects of this drug?” she asked, her tone annoyed.
“I am,” I said. But they were mild in my opinion — a little dizziness on occasion, dry mouth, a mild feeling of detachment from events that I actually enjoyed and preferred to my regular jazzed state of being.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Doesn’t it say there?”
“I’m just verifying.”
I gave her my birth date.
“So how old does that make you?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
She stared at me, her face smooth and unwavering.
A white-haired senior standing behind me issued impatient sighs and sniffs. He had places to go. I turned and eyeballed him as if to say, “Hold your horses, buddy.”
“Are you on a plan?” the pharmacist asked.
“No,” I said.
“Cash or card?”
“I’ll pay cash,” I said.
The pharmacist raised her penciled eyebrows and made a small sound. Although less common than ever, I didn’t think paying with cash was strange. But something else triggered her surprise, something unfolding behind me. I turned and saw two middle-aged women grappling at the front of the pharmacy. Each had the other’s hair clenched in both fists with neither relenting. They were essentially rag-dolling each other. I’d never witnessed anything like it.
“Aren’t you going to do anything?” the pharmacist asked.
“Do I look like a cop?” I replied.
“Big he-man like you.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “Do you understand? I simply don’t care.”
The pharmacist’s eyes thinned. The senior behind me guffawed. The grappling women screamed and bumped about the entranceway, still entangled. I sighed. All I wanted was my fucking meds so I wouldn’t lose my shit. Was that too much to ask? Did that make me the heavy in this scenario? Please answer the reader survey below:
| Is the narrator the heavy here? | Yes ▢ | No ▢ |
| Is the pharmacist evil? | Yes ▢ | No ▢ |
| Is the senior a blowhard? | Yes ▢ | No ▢ |
| Are the women fighting assholes? | Yes ▢ | No ▢ |
| Are all people assholes? | Yes ▢ | No ▢ |
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