Denim, Leather and Drugs

My wife threw out her back yesterday. Her doctor called in a prescription to our local pharmacy. Sitting in the shadow of a big, shiny, red CVS Pharmacy, this is the pharmacy that my parents used when I was growing up. Although it's changed hands a few times, we've continued to frequent it in defiance of the red monolith next door. As a result, my face has been known there for years. Ye Olde Pharmacy recently changed hands again, and although some of the clerks seem to have stayed on, there is a new couple of chemists behind the counter. They don't know my grubby ass.

Apparently the doctor's office got my wife's birth date incorrect. The druggist came from behind the counter to give me a look see. I was wearing my excellently faded jeans(frayed perfectly behind the ankles), sneakers, white t-shirt and trusty, well worn leather jacket with torn lining.

(Yeah, I looked pretty tough, punk.)

My wife's prescription must have been some good stuff, because the pharmacist seemed very suspicious. She looked me in the eye and asked "What is the date of birth?" Pausing to think just a bit too long, I answered correctly, and although she still didn't seem completely convinced, she explained that the script had the wrong birthdate on it and went back to her perch.

Now I worked in a pharmacy when I was in high school, and I can remember a certain customer who also favored well worn denim and leather jackets. His presence in the store inevitably lead to an intense, hushed conversation with the nebbish pharmacist who would come out from behind his counter to tell Denim and Leather that he was out of refills. The interaction would usually end with D&L departing, defeated and shaky, to score himself a fresh prescription. He'd usually come back later that month to proudly slap a new one on the counter and give nebbish pharmacist a victorious smile.

So when my new chemist came out from behind her counter to check me out, I knew what time it was. She wanted to make sure I wasn't some grubby, denim and leather clad pill popper with a misinformed accomplice, calling in a fake order for pain meds.

Looking at the "May Cause Drowsiness" label on the amber vial, I realized that my wife's physical discomfort would soon be relieved, but her anguish over my sometimes sketchy appearance would not.