Spiffy Gets Demoted, Escapes The Jungle

It all started last March, on a fine Monday morning of apothecary wonderment. I was on the phone with TheBoss, who had called regarding some issue I probably didn't give a shit about. She concluded her business and I said something that I did not realize was going to issue from my orifice until it escaped. I told her that I wanted out of my current position and requested a transfer work over-nights at the Corpopharm close to my house. I explained that my lifespan at Corpopharm would not last much longer if my request was not met. I hadn't planned on giving her an ultimatum that day, but there it was.

The last six or so months have been a waiting game. Negotiations, compromises, and enough bureaucracy to make your grandmother want to punch babies. My company is large, and the corporate structure is motivated by many factors. My happiness is not chief among them, so it doesn't surprise me that my request was not fulfilled in a golden instant. I'm sure it would have happened more quickly had I threatened to walk. I'm not a dick like that. Even though I work for an evil machine, that machine is responsible for welfare of real people (like your grandmother).

Two weeks ago, TheBoss called and informed me that my transfer was finally a reality. I started working the night shift at my new pharmacy last week, and I feel the sanity creeping back in already.

There's a multitude of reasons why this was necessary. Anyone who reads about my experiences at work has a glimpse into my head. The responses I've gotten from people who read this site tend to be a bit off the mark. I do not hate my job. I enjoy pharmacy. I truly believe I have one of the best jobs available in the United States today. I feel very fortunate to be in the position I am and wouldn't choose many jobs over the one I currently have (video game tester and beer sampler aside). The problem is not my line of work but the segment of the population that it puts me in direct contact with on a daily basis.

I don't understand people. It's difficult for me to articulate just how each and every interaction with patients at the pharmacy affects me, but the result is rarely positive. I'm offended much more easily than most people by the boorish and casual manner of the standard pharmacy patron. Certainly not by things that most people would consider offensive. I can't reconcile the expectations of the American public with my responsibilities as a health care professional. I cannot alter the perception of the masses. I can't make your coupon work for the toilet paper and explain the proper method for your bowel prep kit in the same sentence. I don't want to bill your script to medicaid and see you drive away in an Escalade. It's not within me.

The other elephant in the rooms was being Pharmacist In Charge. PIC is a legally necessary position for any pharmacy. In a nutshell, the PIC is responsible for the pharmacy obeying regulations set forth by the board of pharmacy by that state. Combine this with the fact that I had precious little faith in my partner and the result was a lot stress and anxiety. I realized one day that if I had a family member that needed medication, I would not want them to go to my pharmacy while my partner was on duty. This is a reality at many pharmacies, sad as that is. I decided I didn't want to accept responsibility any longer for things that were beyond my control. I'll never be PIC again, unless I own the joint.

I just got done with my shift. It's 7:30 AM, and I'm having a beer and watching the sun rise over the park. I spent my last 2 hours at work reading Stephen King's Bachman Books. I'll go to bed in an hour or so.

Next time you get out of the ER at 3 AM and head to the 24 Corpopharm to get your scripts filled, it may that weird pharmacist with the tattoos. Don't worry, you're not fucked. I'll take good care of you.

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Also, credit of Dr. Russell and The Onion, here's a little pharmacy funny in case you haven't read it already. I broke my balls laughing.

http://www.theonion.com/content/node/38511

In The Spirit Of

I get to wondering about the shoppers. The women that grab the shopping cart and wander around Corpopharm for 45 minutes like there's something worth buying. The shopping carts at Corpopharm aren't even real, they're the little downsized bitch models that are about half the size of what you get at the grocery store. At stores that are in the ghetto (one of our managers got shot at one of them a few weeks ago, and that's really sad to me) they have a long pole sticking out of the top so that you can't walk out the door with them. I don't know what's more sad:that people want to steal those stupid mini-carts or that Corpopharm can't bear the thought of some crazy indigent going home with one.

It's always the same routine for them. First, walk in and get a cart. Lean over it like it's a walker out of some geriatric fantasy from hell and drag your feet like they're in cement shoes. Stop by the circular kiosk and grab the ad book that you'll argue with register clerk ad nausem about when you're not getting the sale price on the enema special. Yes, we have enema specials. Get into that old handbag which may or may not contain an army of coupons and retrieve the tissue that you've been using long enough to become good friends with it. Stagger up and down the aisles that have the same inferior products as the last time you got away from bingo long enough to get your heart medication. There's got to be something there you haven't seen before. Make sure your perm is wrapped around your skull like a helmet and you shirt has a bible verse or a Nascar number on it. The look in your eyes ranges from skepticism to thinly veiled contempt. This is the only way.

The most amazing part is that Corpopharm is designed to be wholly offensive to the human senses. Combine fluorescent lighting, looped top forty music and abrasive color schemes with the faint smell of desperation and the result is a profound blow to even the most stoic human spirit. Every day I walk in to my store I wonder if the powers that be are trying to deal a personal blow to my constitution. I can't get back to my pharmacy fast enough to drown out Tina Turner or Gwen Stefani with Nine Inch Nails or Cat Power. Not you, constant shopper. You revel in it, you bob your head.

Tomorrow, the first time I see a shopper, I'm going to follow her around. This is not sexist, it's always a her. I'm going to watch and learn. I don't even care what's going on in the pharmacy. This creature is able to ignore the offensive and focus intently on the mundane and banal as if it were virtue. Don't worry, I'll keep my distance. Trifle not with tired tigers.

Putrid Prophylactic Preview

Here's an unedited note from one of the overnights I worked a few weeks ago.

i'm writing this on my laptop. it's 2:59 am. a couple (man and woman) just came into the store. they came directly back to where the condoms are, which happens to be directly in front of the pharmacy. at first it was just the two of them. then another person showed up, and another. now there are five people in a group in front of the condoms, two women and 3 men. now, this isn't altogether uncommon. it's not unusual for a bunch of kids to be looking at the condoms, snickering and grab-assing. this is not the case here. as i'm typing this, there is a group of 5 adults picking out condoms... together. and they're not attractive. oh boy. i really really hope they don't need a consultation. oh go oh god oh god...