“Hey, Karen!” he boomed, his voice echoing past the allergy aisle. “This HOT FLASH GEL FOR TESSA B—IT’S NOT SCANNING!”
The pharmacy went silent.
Every head turned.
My face ignited, a five-alarm blaze of humiliation that had nothing to do with my internal thermostat. This was Beau, the self-appointed master of ceremonies for other people’s ailments, and he had just made my hormonal decline the Saturday matinee. He held up the box of gel like a game show prize, oblivious to the fact he was broadcasting my private medical information.
He saw a customer. A barcode. He didn’t see a person.
The clueless man holding my prescription hostage had no idea my entire career was built on dismantling problems with precise, carefully chosen language, and I was about to use that skill to write the final, laminated, and publicly posted chapter of his.
The Saturday Gauntlet: A Low, Simmering Heat
The heat started in my chest, a low, coiling burn that had nothing to do with the broken air-conditioning in the pharmacy. It was a familiar, unwelcome guest, the kind that shows up unannounced and overstays its welcome. My own personal, internal thermostat, permanently on the fritz.
I clutched the strap of my purse, the worn leather a small comfort against my damp palm. Mark, my husband, had offered to come. “Just text me the list, Tess. I can grab it after I mow the lawn.” But I’d waved him off. It felt like admitting defeat, handing over a part of my own maintenance like a car I could no longer figure out how to drive.
So here I was. Carden’s Pharmacy on a Saturday. The ninth circle of suburban hell. The line snaked from the pharmacy counter at the back, past the incontinence aids, and was currently stalled somewhere between ‘Seasonal Allergies’ and ‘Stomach Remedies.’
I took my place behind a woman wrestling a toddler into the seat of a squeaky shopping cart. Just ahead of her, a man coughed a wet, rattling cough that made me want to bathe in hand sanitizer. This was the gauntlet. And at the end of it was Counter Three.
At the end of it was Beau.
The Voice of Counter Three
You could hear Beau before you could see him. His voice was a theatrical boom, a stage actor’s projection utterly wasted on the acoustic-tiled cavern of a chain pharmacy. He wasn’t just a pharmacy technician; he was the master of ceremonies for other people’s ailments.
“ALBUTEROL! FOR A GERALD W!” he’d bellow, holding up an inhaler like a prize. “GERALD, YOU READY TO BREATHE EASY?” An elderly man would shuffle forward, face crimson. Beau would give him a wink, a performance for the captive audience in the queue. He thought it was charm. He mistook mortification for appreciation.
I watched him now, leaning over the counter, his name tag—BEAU, with a smiley face drawn in Sharpie—askew on his light blue scrubs. He was talking to a young woman, probably not much older than my son, Leo. She was hugging herself, looking at her shoes.
“Okay, so the doctor said once a day for the YEAST INFECTION CREAM,” Beau announced, his voice carrying clear over the toddler’s whining and the rattling cough. “You got that, sweetie? Don’t want that little problem coming back!”
The girl snatched the bag from his hand, her face a mask of pale horror. She fled, not even making eye contact. Beau just chuckled, turning to his computer screen with the self-satisfied air of a man who believed he’d just done a good deed. My internal thermostat kicked up another ten degrees.
A Grant Proposal for My Nerves
My job is writing grants. I take a complex, desperate need—funding for an after-school arts program, a mobile health clinic, a new roof for the historical society—and I shape it into a compelling, logical, and emotionally resonant narrative. I build a case, brick by brick, with data, anecdotes, and carefully chosen language. My entire career is based on controlled persuasion.
About the Author
