Monday, March 5, 2012

When I almost got into a bar fight at Walgreens ...

I pulled into the parking lot and there was a guy with one hand on the garbage can, another wrapped around a drink and he was chugging from it like the star of a Gatorade commercial ... or a guy at last call that second the cab stops at the curb. Maybe it was in his hunch. Or the stumble. Probably the camouflage overalls. He was definitely the latter.

"Eeps. Hamboned at Walgreens," I thought to the tune of "It's Raining on Prom Night."

The area near the pharmacy smelled boozy. Like if I opened my pores just a quarter of a notch I'd catch The Drink. He was sitting in the waiting chairs fiddling with his snow boots and otherwise freaking out the squares.

"Ma'am! Ma'am," he said. "It's your turn. Go!"
"He's busy with another customer," the woman said and looked away.

I placed my order and sat down about four chairs away. A clerk came out to talk to me about a footnote in my insurance and I said "Oh yeah. They don't cover this." She tried to sell me a prescription plan -- pay $20 now, save something dollars a month, blah blah blah -- and I passed because I hate paperwork.

"Oh, they want to get you on that prescription deal, huh? I'm on that," he said to me. "Who's your provider? Is it (Fill in the blank with some insurance company)."

I looked up from my Kindle and said "Listen. I know what I'm doing. Thanks anyway" and then looked back at my Kindle.

"Well, I'm glad someone knows what they're doing," he said. "Knows what they're doing. Someone who knows what they're doing."

"Ma'am! You're not next! My friend is next," he bellowed back at the line.
"She's okay," his friend said. "I'm next."
"Oh. Oh. Okay," he said. "Jesus. I can't believe it takes 10 minutes to pick up a prescription. We should have been in and out in no time flat. In and out. Ten minutes. What is this. Jesus."
"Man," his friend said. "You have all sorts of rage today. Road rage, store rage ..."

Then the clerk helped his friend and they started to walk away. The drunk guy turned to me and said, "Sorry I tried to help you out," or something like that and I said "Oh, you're fine" and added a smug little self-righteous look I think I learned from my mom.

"I KNOW I'M FINE," he said. Chuckled meanly. "Did you hear what that girl said to me? 'You're fine.' What a bitch. 'You're fine.' Can you believe her?"

And that's when I got the blood boil. That thing where my head starts to pound and my eyes glaze over in a film of red and I almost can't stop myself from saying something smart ass. Like cupping my mouth and shouting "WHATEVER, MR. HAMMERED AT WALGREENS AT 8 O'CLOCK ON A MONDAY!!!" But I swallowed it, paid, and left.

I was dying for him to get into a car when he left the store so I could call the police and give them the most detailed description of a car to ever be recited to a dispatcher in the history of the world. They strolled across the parking lot and he was still mocking me in a sing-song voice "You're fine. You're fine. What a fucking bitch."

Unfortunately they sat down at the bus stop. My inner narc wept.


No comments: