Corrupt Copy Caper

I wrote this last night during a little down time at the ol' pill room. Of course I got about half way in and was really rolling when the shit hit the fan. The middle section is the first guy that interrupted me that turned out to be drunk/high/confused. You decide.

***

Right now it is far too quiet to be a Friday night in the pharmacy. I shouldn't even think that let alone type it. My two techs left and it's like a tomb in here. Maybe even a little spooky being this close to Halloween.

Last night, however, was a doozy. It was steady enough that I stayed busy the entire night both filling scripts and taking care of some projects. The highlight of the night, though, was definitely Faker.

Faker came in around 11:30 wanting to fill a prescription for Oxycontin. I recognized him immediately having filled a rather large prescription of oxycodone for him a few weeks prior. That one had been for 240 oxycodone 30 mg tablets. For those of you not in the biz, that's a lot of damn oxycodone.

My wind was already up. One of my fellow Corpopharmacists had called me an hour earlier warning me about Faker, saying that he had already been to another pharmacy that night and was most likely Up To No Good. Not only that, but Faker himself had called earlier in the evening on two separate occasions. The first call was to see if I had a large quantity of oxycodone in stock, the same amount that he had gotten at my pharmacy before. The second call was to see if I had the Oxycontin which he was now trying to fill. He told me he was planning on paying cash. Sixty Oxycontin 80 mg is about $900. All this adds to up to one big stinky bit of fishiness.

_____________________________________________________

Hahaha. A quick funny. Some guy out in the OTC section just started mumbling rather loudly, ending in PHARMACIST. I look up, and he's about 50 feet away from the pharmacy holding a box of some vitamins waving them around like a traffic director, apparently trying to ask me a question. I asked him if he had a question, but he just continued to stand where he was and mumble at high volume. I instructed him to come over to the pharmacy if he had a question.

Guy: I just wanted to see if you were awake.

Me: (glare) Do you have a question about those vitamins?

He stared down at the box of vitamins as if he was surprised to see them. After a few seconds he looked back up, puzzled. He looked back down at the vitamins.

Guy: No. I don't have a question.

His cell phone started to ring.

Guy: I'm not here. Nope. I'm not here at all.

He walked away.

____________________________________________________

Where were we? Ah yes! Faker. Faker was standing at the drop off window while I looked at the prescription that he has just handed me. The prescription appeared to be a copy, although close to being good. The doctor's handwriting was a pretty excellent forgery but the prescription itself was obviously a copy on plain old white printer paper. I was trying to decide what reason to give Faker for denying the fill when he opened his mouth and started to dig himself even deeper. Fakers do this quite often.

Faker: Yeah, I'm heading out of town tomorrow and I forgot all about this prescription. I know it's a little early but I need it. Unbelievable! I gotta pay cash for it, too. I hope that's OK. I've been taking this stuff for years after my surgery. When can I pick that up?

This is an abbreviated version of Faker's story. The Story is a trademark for every person who's trying to fill a fake prescription. I have no idea why, but they all have diarrhea of the mouth when it's time to try and pass off a fake. Maybe they think that if they distract the pharmacist he/she won't realize they're a big fat liar. Maybe it's just nervous babble. Whatever the case, every faker has the same story that is used every damn time, and this was no exception. Faker had given me the same spiel a few weeks earlier, even when I had no reason to suspect him and filled his prescription without argument. It's tiresome. This was just another clue that Faker's prescription was about as real as a three dollar bill.

My computers were down at the time. I told Faker to come back in about a half hour. I wanted to be sure of myself before I refused to fill the script. Faker left and I was poring over the presumed fake script when the night manager came back to the pharmacy.

Night manager: Did that guy try and fill a script?

Me: Yeah, I'm looking into it now.

Night manager: He was just up front making copies of a prescription. I saw him doing it and he said it was for tax records. Did you fill it?

Seriously? My jaw hit the floor. I probably looked like I'd just bought the Golden Gate Bridge and suddenly realized it. Picture the situation for yourself. This guy walks in a Corpopharm, proceeds to the copy machine (10 cents each) at the front of the store, slaps down his prescription template and runs off ten or so copies. He pulls out a freshly copied blank, scrawls out whatever prescription he's craving, and walks to the back of the store where the pharmacy is located. On the way he folds his newly minted fraudulent prescription back and forth a few times for good measure (he doesn't want it to look too fresh). Everybody knows most smackheads can't keep their prescriptions pristine anyway (they're usually torn, wrinkled and dirty). Arriving at the pharmacy, he presents his prescriptions with pride and the solemn knowledge that he has Done Good. Corpopharm, your one stop shop for all your fraudulent prescription needs.

I just stood there for a few seconds and let my brain process the information. Who the hell is that stupid? As it turns out, he was a whole lot dumber, but we'll get to that later.

Faker called back over the phone after about an hour and asked if his prescription was ready. I told him I would have to verify the script with his doctor because of the high dose. He mumbled part of The Story again and said he would be back in a few minutes.

Faker returned and brought out the big guns, the Guilt Trip Please Help Me Story. He stated that him and 'the wife' were leaving for a cruise the next day, and that he would miss the trip if he didn't get his medication NOW. He even told me 'the wife' was out in the car crying here eyes out. Boo hoo. He begged. He pleaded. He all but accused me of suspecting him for what he was, stating he'd never had a problem filling before and didn't understand what the big deal was. It was pretty neat to watch his emotions range from distressed to angry to hopeful. I just stood there and looked bored. After a few minutes he finally stopped orating (or maybe paused for breath). I simply reiterated that I had to verify the script this his doc before I could fill it. Faker looked like I'd just told him his dog died. Had I told Faker that if he got down on his knees and begged for it, I'm sure he would have. Don't doubt it. Opiate addiction is a terrible thing. Faker finally said he would take his prescription somewhere else to fill it. I wished him luck and he left.

When the day pharmacist arrived I explained the situation and asked her to verify Faker's script with the doctor's office and see if they wanted to try and catch him. When I arrived back to work this evening, a note was pinned up at the pharmacist's station with some paperwork attached. This was it:

That's right. Faker was so anxious to get his dope that he left the original in the copy machine. At Corpopharm. At the Corpopharm he was trying to commit fraud at.

This is the pinnacle of civilization has to offer in the year 2009. Excuse me while I go dump cyanide into the water supply.

Gonzo Drugs for Hapless Thugs

It sounds like people are enjoying the Gonzo journalism style posts. Here's one from last night.

1. yen needs help with topamax coupon card. She gets all excited when i show her how to do it.

-Yen is one of our interns who works a few hours a week when she's not doing the pharmacy school thing. Going to pharmacy school and working in a retail pharmacy concurrently is one of the surest recipes for disaster in terms of your mental health. She's a good sport, though. What is funny about this is that Yen has very exaggerated responses and giggles a lot. It's hard to be in a bad mood around her.

Yen: I can't get this to work. Can you show me?

Me: Yeah, I can work on it (Spiffy starts working).

Yen: Oh, WAIT! Shouldn't you check this first? She's waiting (indicating another prescription a patient is waiting for).

Me: OK, sure (Spiffy starts checking the script for the waiter).

Yen: Oh!!! Phone call has question for pharmacist!

Me: Don't worry, I'll get to it.

Imagine this tiny little person (she's around 5 feet tall) rushing around, flapping her hands like angry birds and giggling like a school girl every time you respond to a question. It's too comical to be aggravating.

2. Guy needs cough medication for kid. Doesn't get what i show him. Thanks.

Not a terribly uncommon occurrence (unfortunately). People come to the pharmacy and want an immediate solution for their intractable malady NOW. They leave with what I recommend to them about half the time. Why? Because many people are just one rung away from apes on the evolutionary ladder (sometimes above, sometimes below).

This pisses me off for two reasons. 1) If you aren't going to listen to my advice, why waste my time asking? 2) I'M A FUCKING PHARMACIST. There is no other person that is more knowledgeable about over the counter medications than me. ME. The person standing in front of you sticking EXACTLY WHAT YOU NEED right in your stupid, vapid face.

3. Guy and girl approach pharmacy. Recognize them as the ppl who asked me a few months ago about what to do for her vag. Apparently they just got married and started having sex and her vag hurt. I immediately cringe because i think they are back for something related to that. They're here for her mother's achy knees. Relief.

This is true. It may sound funny to you, but you're not the guy that these two newlyweds came to early on a Saturday evening because they needed something to make the brides vagina less painful.

I'm serious. I remembered them because the situation was just that ghastly. A month or two ago they came to the pharmacy early on a Saturday. I was neck deep in refill-too-soons, transfer requests and ER scripts when they showed up. I have to give it to them, they explained their situation without an ounce of embarrassment. Quite simply put, they explained that they had just gotten married. They were both virgins, and their newfound forays into sex led to one very painful vagina. Just how the hell am I supposed to handle this? Anyone who is not a virgin will know that this conversation was a bit inopportune for my time and place.

4. Guy comes to ask for something that 'you drink and it clean you out'. I start to stand up to show him the mag citrate and he says 'which aisle? I find it.' interesting. I tell him which aisle and he actually comes back with mag citrate. I wonder if he was testing me.

This situation was strange because he actually went out into the store and picked up just what I would have gotten for him. That's like winning the lottery as Corpopharm has roughly a billion shitty products you can buy.

5. everybody that comes in at night are foreigners. They're coming to me for health care. Good fucking luck. Don't know why, they all have medicaid. That's not prejudice, that's truth.

For the most part, this is true. There are multitudes of people that come to the pharmacy after hours seeking medical attention from a pharmacist that has no business giving it to them. 90 percent of them speak shit for English and end up dragging their 7 year old out of bed to interpret for them. The ones that are the most fun are the people that are looking for a suppository and pantomime inserting said suppository into their ass.

6. Just filled an rx for one of those families where every member is on like 5 psych meds. Mom, dad, kids, dog. I wonder what dinner time at that house is like? 'hey dad, can you pass the... wait, who gave dad a knife? Run!'

Yep. You know those families you see at the restaurant on Sunday where all the kids are running around in an uncontrollable frenzy and the parents are staring daggers at each other? They spend a SHITLOAD of money at the pill room. Well, the state spends it because Medicaid pays for their drugs.

There really are families that exist (nay, thrive) where every last family member takes numerous psychotropic medications just to achieve some shambling form of normality. It makes sense if you think about it. Two really fucked up people meet and get hitched, then have lots of fucked up kids. Their mental illnesses are passed on via inherited chemical imbalances and drastic behavioral abnormalities. The result is a crazed family circus where the worst occurrence is much, much worse than Jeffy mispronouncing spaghetti.

Baffling Busch Bonanza

I walked in the door this morning to find a can of Busch sitting in the counter. Seriously:

And what else? It's empty. Someone actually drank the damn thing.

My eyes immediately darted around the house surveying for damage. What kind of fiends would bring redneck beer into my home late on a Friday and leave one solitary, innocuous can sitting on the counter? If you ever come home to find empty Busch cans littering your domicile, you can also expect broken furniture, public nuisance citations and the change stolen off your dresser.

In this house, this just doesn't make sense. Don'tworryaboutit and Risk are both home this weekend, but neither of them would trade their hard earned wages for this swill. Risk is a wine man, I don't know that I've ever seen him bring beer home for his own personal enjoyment. Don'tworryaboutit would drink window cleaner if it would get him drunk, but even he has more sense than to buy skunk like this.

I'm definitely not hating on Busch. There's plenty of good ol' boys out there who pull dusty cans of Busch out of the beds of pickups after a long day in the field for a refresher. God bless 'em for it. However, if there's any beer you could classify as classic American Skunk, this is it.

I set the can down, shaking my head and opened up the keg fridge for my own after work refreshment. What I saw appalled me. The genesis of the can on the counter was made clear by the entire case of Busch occupying a shelf of the keg fridge. What compounded the mystery was the case of Pabst on the shelf above it.

What the blue fuck? Busch? Pabst? Busch and Pabst? While Busch is almost exclusively poor white trash and farmer beer, Pabst nowadays belongs to hipsters, college students, and the old timers that still recognize that blue ribbon quality. But the young professional crowd that my roommates run with? No sir.

There really should be quite a good story behind this.

Anal Alice Argument

Enough bullshit. Here are the facts:

1)Alice in Chains, after a 14 year hiatus, is releasing their new album Black Gives Way to Blue on September 29th.

2)Alice's previous lead singer, Layne Staley, was found dead in his Seattle condominium on April 19, 2002.

3)Alice will be featuring a new lead singer (William DuVall) on their new album. They have already released two singles via their website, A Looking In View and Check My Brain. Both tracks are unequivocally awesome and will melt your face the second you hear them.

Everyone is aware to the aforementioned facts. That's why they're facts, there's no arguing them. Everyone is waiting for the album and probably would murder kittens to get it early. I know I've got my flannel shirts and Doc Martens ready like it's 1995. I even had all my jeans stonewashed.

Here's where the BS starts. You generally hear this piece of BS from two camps, the metal heads and the hippies.

Metal heads: Heard the new Alice single? Bro sounds just like Layne! Aww, man you can't even tell the two apart!!

Hippies: Hey man, that new lead singer for Alice sounds just like Layne Staley, man. Yeah, it's like he was, like, reincarnated or something. It's totally trippy (cough cough cough)!

You even hear a radio DJ say it from time to time, although most of them are wise enough not to. Let me clue all you assholes in on something.

Alice in Chains uses a technique known as vocal harmony in most of their music. Vocal harmony occurs when two vocalists sing various parts of the song together in the same tune. Much of their old stuff contained vocal harmony, and both of the singles released for the upcoming album feature extensive vocal harmony.

What does this mean? It means you're all retarded and don't realize that half of this vocal harmony has always been and will continue to be the musical genius and guitar god Jerry Cantrell. What used to be Layne Staley is now William DuVall. With half of the equation being the same as it has always been, of course it's going to sound pretty similar. In the parts of the song where DuVall is singing alone, it's pretty clear to me that he sounds nothing like Layne Staley. Is he good? Yes. Are the songs good? Obviously. Is William DuVall reincarnated Layne Staley? Don't make me laugh. Maybe if I was taking constant bong rips throughout the song (hippies) or headbanging (metal heads) I wouldn't be able to discern a difference. Please, pull your heads out.

We can all agree that the new album is going to be divine. Let's settle for that.

Marauding Moneybags Motherfucker

Moneybags is a regular at my pharmacy. I've written about him before. He's the guy who came through the drivethrough one night with literally a trunk full of cash. Normally, he's pretty tame. Last night, he was in rare form. He pulled into the drivethrough in a Lexus sedan. He always has a different car. He told me one night that he hasn't owned a car long enough to have to change the oil in the last 10 years.

Moneybags: Hey, Spiffy! I need my refills. Here's one of my bottles...

He threw the empty script bottle toward the pass-through, missing by a wide margin. He always has one bottle with him for one of the refills that he's already called in. It's only one bottle, even if he has multiple refills. I can't figure out why. The bottle bounced off the passthrough and fell to the ground near his car.

Moneybags: Motherfucker.

He said it in an almost contemplating tone, as if he was trying to figure out how he'd gone wrong. He put his fancy Lex in reverse and started to back up. He suddenly stopped and stuck his head out the window.

Moneybags: Where the... motherfucker.

This time, he almost breathed the curse so I could barely hear it. He continued to back up until he had enough room to get his door open and got out. He walked toward the empty bottle and swung his foot at it with grim determination. He missed.

Moneybags: Motherfucker. Mother... (cocking his leg back for a hearty kick) FUCKER!

This time he connected with the bottle, sending it spinning across the drive through lane and careening off the curb. I was absolutely speechless. He looked like a five year old throwing a tantrum. I would have been laughing if I hadn't been so taken aback.

Moneybags: Fucker.

He walked calmly over to his confrontational bottle, picked it up, and walked back to the pass-through. Calmly, he placed it in the pass-through.

Moneybags: I'm getting back in my car now.

Me: OK.

I wonder what had him so riled up. I thought about asking if someone had broken into his trunk and taken his bankroll. I decided it would be wiser not to. I didn't want to end up in there.

Sassy Signature Log Scandal

At Corpopharm you must sign a piece of paper when you pick up a prescription. This is Corpopharm's proof that the person you're interacting with has offered the patient the opportunity to speak with a pharmacist. Pharmacies must make the offer to counsel because of this boring law that nobody cares about known as OBRA 90. That's not the point.

The point is that nobody can figure out the signature log. You could hand the signature log to a MENSA member and suddenly they would transform into a knuckle-dragging, shit-chucking mouth-breathing ape. The sig log is divided up into three columns. The middle column is designated for a sticker that comes off of the label of the prescription you are picking up. On each side of the middle column is another column, this one with a blank space. You sign on the left if you wish to wave your privilege to speak to the pharmacist, and sign on the right if you do not. It doesn't even matter which side you sign on, as long as you sign somewhere. The instructions are stated at the top of the form in plain English.

Sounds easy, right? WRONG. Last night provided a good example of just how difficult this task is for your average pharmacy patron.

Idiot: Huh? Sign?

She looked at the sig log like it was a recently uneathed Hebrew script from 150 BC. I could tell it was going to take her some time to decipher it, so I took a deep breath and provided her with instruction.

Me: See the stickers in the middle column? Just sign to the left of each one in the blank space.

She trailed her hand over the form, tracing the runes and heiroglyphs that undoubtedly danced before her eyes. Her finger stopped on the middle column, where the stickers from her prescriptions resided. There is no room to write on the stickers. She looked up at me bravely and smiled.

Idiot: (pointing to the stickers) Here?

Me: Sign on the left side of the stickers.

She looked back down at the form with a puzzled look on her face. After a few seconds she looked back up.

Idiot: I need to sign? Where?

Me: (pause for effect) Sign to the LEFT of the stickers. See the blank boxes?

Her finger made another drunken course around the sig log. She finally landed on the righthand column.

Idiot: You want me to sign to the right?

Me: (audible sigh) Send the form back in, please.

She sent the form back in (she was at the drive through, of course) and I put a large X in each box she needed to sign. They don't make us pharmacists go to six years of school for nothing. I sent the form back out, deciding that if she couldn't figure it out this time I would refill her scripts with anthrax and hope for the best.

Damnable Deer Hunter Depravity

Deer Hunter was back last night. I really need to get rid of that asshole.

This time was different, however. This time, he was Deer Hunter Incognito. He approached the counter with some girl who had a few scripts from the ER. I took the scripts from her and entered them into the computer, telling her it would take just a few minutes. She walked over to the waiting area and sat down, but Deer Hunter remained. I didn't realize it was him until he handed me a script from the same ER with his name on it.

I hadn't recognized DH initially because he was wearing a baseball cap pulled down low over his brow, part of what I'll refer to as White Trash Uniform. You wear this uniform if you live in my city and fit these four categories:

1) White/Anglo/Caucasian
2) Male
3) Age 13-50
4) IQ < 100

The White Trash Uniform (WTU) has many variations and a few crucial components. They're all clASSy. The most important feature is that all articles of clothing are no less than two sizes too large. The pants must be hanging off the ass. Headwear is optional, but if not present corn rows are preferred. Bling in the form of neck chains or oversized watches is preferred, just so people can see what a balla you are. Neck tattoos are also preferred. Shirt should feature local professional sports team or weed leafs.

I'll never understand the White Trash Uniform. You might as well wear a sandwich board that says, "I live in a trailer, beat my girlfriend/dog/kids, get arrested biweekly, and generally suck at life."

DH handed me a prescription and surprisingly did not start into some long winded explanation about how he had fucked up and lost his drugs. I started to put them into the computer and remembered that the last few times he had been in he'd had no insurance cards. I kindly asked DH if he could provide me with his insurance information.

DH: Uh, yeah! I got Medicare!

I surveyed DH with my eyes for a few seconds. He returned my gaze with a look of puzzlement and dim hope. I sighed internally and asked DH if he happened to have an insurance card on his person so that I could properly bill his scripts.

DH: I go to Kmart! They got it all there.

I reminded DH that Kmart was not open in the middle of the night. I nearly reminded DH that he and I had been through this particular performance before. I decided he might read between the lines, realize I was calling him an idiot, and opted not to.

I eventually located DH's Medicaid coverage with the miracles of modern technology and filled the scripts he had from the ER. I called him up to the counter to ring him up at which time he engaged me in cordial conversation.

DH: Yeah, me an' the ol' lady havin' a rough night. Went to the ball game! I fell down the stairs at the stadium, and she got a sore mouth. Helluva deal!

Remember the last time DH came to my pharmacy? He got drunk at the river and lost his drugs. Tonight, he got drunk at the baseball game (drunk? based on the way he smelled, he was probably swimming in the beer) and stair-surfed the upper deck. He must not be able to handle his liquor.

In related news, NPR reported this morning that my state is in budget crisis for next year. One of the key areas needing more funds was Medicaid, so people like DH can get drunk and fall down not just on weekends but Tuesday too.

I quit.