Copyright 2004 R.D. Ellison

Small Talk

You get crazies in any job
you dealing with customers - any sort.

The other day this chick, this woman,
comes in with a big old purse with beachballs
and breath a'could kill a horse. Her prescription
was fake, you know? Not only was the
writing legible, but she had it made up
on some computer, and the size was just
a little off. I couldn't prove it, I didn't
whip out a ruler, but I've seen enough
of the goddam things. I could tell.

Well, once she got over the
preliminary shitfit over callin'
the authorities, whatever those
would'a been, on me, she got real
chatty and we got to talking a little.
Dumb old broad. Dumb
old ugly broad. I was
kinda bored, though, so I
played along until she starts getting
nasty again. She asked if there was any kinda
drug for love. "Not Love Potion Number Nine
but a bona fide," whatever that means.
I said no and she started gettin' pissy. So I said that
even if there was one, cause, yeah,
it's kinda a good idea,
people would complain that they
had to wander around half
an hour while I filled the prescription.

Then she gave me this pissy smile
and says, "Worse, if you had it, you'd prob'ly
just go right ahead and give it out."
Yeah. Whatever that means.

You could tell she hated pharmacists
and men. She hated men a lot
prob'ly. No surprise. Hell of a
career, when everyone thinks you've
a step below the drug dealers
on the corner right outside this
store. To hell with her. Let
'er go to them. They won't stand
that pissy tone more'n eight seconds.