The sun refused to shine that Monday morning on my way to another relief gig. It just lurked up there with its arms crossed, pouting behind the clouds like a little kid refusing to go to school on Monday morning. I should have taken it as an omen, turned around and gone home. Mondays are murderous almost everywhere prescriptions are filled, it seems, and this was certainly no exception.
    "Boy, am I glad you could make it!" said the manager as I strolled in innocently to the slaughter. "I’ve got management reports I’m behind on, we’re doing inventory today, this huge order needs to be put away, and one of the techs is out sick. Oh, and we have a new tech starting this morning. Be nice to her because she’s the store manager’s daughter. You don’t mind taking charge of things I while I meet with the district manager, do you?"

Restless crowd
    He rushed out so fast it sucked the wind out of my lungs, so I couldn’t reply till the dust had settled. By that time an ugly Monday morning crowd had begun to gather, and a few of them had blood in their eyes. The elevator version of "Stairway to Heaven” began playing over the loudspeakers, and I couldn’t help thinking of Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.    
    "What do you mean, it’s not ready yet? I phoned in my refill this morning at 5 a.m. to that answering machine of yours. That was four hours ago!" exclaimed one lady patiently. "I have to get on a plane to. . ."
    A burly man with one big eyebrow strode up to the counter angrily. "You’re always out of this," he growled. "Just shove it up your Azmacort. I’ll find another pharmacy that can keep it in stock."
    He threw the partial fill at me, but I was saved from the impact by an open thousand-count bottle of Premarin that loosed its contents over the floor like Tic-Tacs going through an oscillating fan.
    “You sold me Artificial Tears yesterday," said another lady. "I don’t have an artificial eye. Both of mine are real. I want a refund, and I want it right now.”
    I could hardly hear her over the ringing of phones, and I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the new tech had arrived. I looked at the clock and it just sneered at me, 9:04 AM plastered all over its guilty face. This was going to be a long day.
    The inventory crew arrived and one tall kid with a Walkman and 17 earrings unholstered his calculator and asked me, "Duuuude! Like how many Premarin did you put on the floor, man? I ain’t countin’ those, dude.” The new tech blew a bubble and examined the artificial nails of one hand critically.
    "I need to use the phone,” she said to me in exasperation. I started to ask how old she was, but I was afraid the answer might be “This many.” The thought occurred to me that I have gum in the pockets of my smock that might possibly be older than she.
    "These nails have got to be redone," she said. "Would you please get one of these phone lines free so I can make a call?" "Tie a Yellow Ribbon" wafted through the air from the overhead speakers. I answered the phone and put two lines on hold, so I could answer the physicians’ line; then I motioned for her to start answering the phone herself.
    “Let’s get to work," I said. “Be sure to get the patient’s name along with the prescription number, and please get rid of that gum. It just doesn’t look professional in the pharmacy." As I turned away to scribble orders, I thought I saw her stick her tongue out at me, but when I looked back at her she only smiled.

What did you say?
    The earring dude smiled back at her, and I heard romance in the air. I was beginning to wonder why on Earth I had decided to become a pharmacist, when a little elderly woman hobbled in and politely asked to speak to the pharmacist.
    “I just got this new prescription yesterday and it seems to make my ears ring," she said loudly.
    I resisted the urge to say, “huh?” and looked at the bottle, discovering that it had indeed been filled in that pharmacy yesterday, and her profile revealed nothing untoward. The prescription was for salsalate.
    “Are you taking any other medications, perhaps from another pharmacy or even non-prescription medications?" I asked at equal volume.
    “What did you say?” She didn’t hear me. I repeated the question louder. “Oh just my buffered aspirin," she replied.
    "That may be your problem," I yelled. “Does your doctor know you take the aspirin?" Again I repeated the question louder. She hadn’t told her doctor about the aspirin and hadn’t mentioned it when she had the prescription filled; but she was delighted to discover the probable cause of her tinnitus.
    "You boys are always so nice to me in here," she said after some further counseling and shouting. "I know I can always count on my pharmacist.”
    The phones continued to generate their cacophony, and the new tech was finally trying to do something productive. After all I hadn’t actually told her NOT to use acetone to clean the counting trays. To her it must have seemed a logical choice somehow, which brings me to the morals of my story:

* It seems like just when things are at their worst, someone reminds me why I became a pharmacist in the first place, to help other people.
* You really can fire the boss’ daughter. At least once, anyway. Anybody need to hire a pharmacist?
* One of the great things about being the relief pharmacist is that you don't have to go back to a terrible pharmacy setting if you don't want to.
     and finally . . .
* There's not a lot you can do with counting trays that have been cleaned with acetone; but let me tell you, it really cleans them up.