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.