Tales from the Script

For anyone who’s ever held a position in customer service, you can attest to the fact that dealing with the general public is unpredictable to say the least. Having worked in one of the busiest pharmacies in one of the worst cities in my early twenties, I accrued an arsenal of hilarious and inappropriate tales.

During one of these ever-hectic shifts, I noticed a little old lady approach the consultation counter. This station was reserved for those that wanted advisement from the pharmacist as the name suggests. At the time, the pharmacist had been tied up on the phone with a doctor’s office clarifying directions on a prescription. As it is the store’s policy to acknowledge a guest immediately, I walked over to greet her. “Good morning” I said, “were you looking to speak with the pharmacist?” On many occasions people would stand in front of the wrong counter, or thought they needed to speak to the pharmacist when their question could be answered by a tech like myself. This appeared to be the case here as she responded with, “help find?” You could tell from her response that English was not her first language and she had a very thick Portuguese accent.

Another store policy engrained into the staff was that “if we were able” we were expected to walk a customer to a product if they asked us for help locating an item. The wording implies this was more of a guideline or best practice, but the lecture from the last staff meeting dictated this was not optional. Being slammed as we almost always were, many of my coworkers abhorred the idea of having to drop everything they were doing to help nana Myrtle find teabags. I myself always welcomed these opportunities as a quick break from the chaos of production. Also, after having worked there for years I found this approach was actually faster and easier, especially when dealing with elderly customers. On occasions where I’d try to get away with “that’s in aisle 9 on the right” for instance, they would just end up coming back angrier than before, convinced I had led them astray. Stepping out from behind the counter, she smiled as I offered, “sure what can I help you find today?”

What I deciphered through her broken English and heavy accent was that she was looking for Zeaman’s. Having worked in the front store prior to transferring to the pharmacy, I remembered stocking foot powder by this name. Escorting her to the aisle where the foot care was located, I pointed to the bottom shelf where various powders were neatly lined up. Going a step further in the name of customer service excellence, I reached down and grabbed the one I was convinced she had inquired about to save her aging back. In short, I thought I was a hero. With a perplexed look, she examined the container struggling to read the back label. Now normally when you show someone something they’ve spent a great deal of time looking for, they make some grand gesture of relief or gratitude. Some go as far as to proclaim that they must be blind, apologize for taking up your time, and send you on your way. Since this was not the response I got, I had a feeling this hadn’t been what she was looking for afterall. When she asked me something to the effect of “can you put this on your face?”, I knew this wasn’t over.

Through a series of interactions I can only describe as Portuguese Charades, I gathered she was looking for a face cream that comes in a jar. Determined to find this mystery product, I continued our quest towards what we called the “beauty wall”, which was a very impressive collection of cosmetics and beauty supplies. Having very little to go on versus a mountain of creams, I began to ask questions to try and narrow the search. It became apparent she did not understand the bulk of what I was asking, as she answered every question with the same dramatic “rubbing on her face” pantomime. Eventually something I said sparked her into telling me she saw it on Dr. Oz. “Now we’re getting somewhere”, I thought as I presented her with the most mainstream products I imagined he’d endorse. Each time she shook her head no. After another 20 minutes of painstakingly trying to find this Dr. Oz rip-off she was convinced she couldn’t live another day without, I conceded to the fact that it probably was something we didn’t carry. Occurring to me that this might be one of those “as seen on tv” type deals that she would have to order online, I beckoned for her to follow me back to the pharmacy so that I might do more research with the help of our database. She happily obliged, thankful that I was spending so much time on her cause.

After a few google searches failed to bring up any promising leads, I asked her if she knew how to spell it by making a writing gesture in the air. I knew this was a long shot because the chances of being able to write a language better than you can speak it seemed slim, but I desperate. Surprisingly, her eyes lit up as she retrieved something to write on from her purse and motioned for me to hand her my pen. Appearing to sound it out she slowly transcribed the name, folded the scrap in half and handed it to me. Excusing myself to the computer terminal to look it up, I was eager to finally get to the bottom of this as it had eaten up so much of my time already. The cursor blinked rhythmically in the empty search bar anticipating my next keystrokes, as I stared at the tiny slip of paper completely dumbfounded.

Written clear as day in all caps was the word “S E M E N”. Thinking back to the countless gestures this 110 year old woman had made, I’m horrified thinking this cute vavo was actively trying to slather herself in penis colada. Could she really be looking to rub a stranger’s baby gravy all over that little raisin face? What the hell Dr. Oz? Glancing over in the direction I left her in, I see she is still standing there barely able to see over the counter. It’s adorable. She looks as innocent as ever with her kind eyes and short permed hair. Not wanting to let her down, yet unsure as to how one should break the news that the local pharmacy did not stock the shelves with jars of cum, I am torn. Reluctantly, I head back towards the counter where she was patiently awaiting my return.

I decide to lie and tell her that I checked and we don’t carry it; going as far to say that I wasn’t able to find it any where else either. Hoping this would prove that I covered all bases and there was nothing more to be done, I thought she would drop it there. Not only did she not drop it, she beckoned for the male pharmacist now off the phone, to come over. Before I can give him some sort of covert signal to abort mission, he has already swooped in to save the day. Having overheard much of the interaction between us, he undoubtedly believes that where I have failed he will succeed. Before even seeing the note he promises to look it up and see if it’s something he can order from our specialty vendor adding a cocky “we can usually get anything.” I announce that I should get back to production before we fall behind, and he throws a quick wave in my direction to tell me he’s all set; I’m not longer needed. Slinking away slowly into the shadows like a cartoon villain, I can’t wait to see how Mr. Helpful handles this. Peering out from behind one of the bays pretending to put drugs away, I snicker as I see his neck and face start to turn a dark shade of scarlet I’ve never before seen on human flesh. “I don’t-, er I’ve never, Um,” he manages to stutter. I see him pan the room in panic, looking for a lifeline he can rope in to alleviate the awkwardness of the situation. Realizing everyone is busy and still clutching the “SEMEN” message, he looks down at the paper and then up at the lady for a minute. He’s visibly sweating as he tries to explain this isn’t something we can get at “store level”. Meanwhile, everyone around us is carrying on with business as usual and have no idea what is going on. This explains the confused stares thrown my way as I’m losing my shit. Having stifled the noise from the fit of laughter I couldn’t hold back, tears are streaming down my face and I’m clutching my legs together like my life depends on it so I don’t piss my pants.

With a look on his face that said “what in the hell did I just witness”, the pharmacist returns to his station. As soon as Jizzy Jezebel is out of ear shot, we both recount the hilariousness of what we had just witnessed to our very confused and disbelieving colleagues. Expressing the need for a break (and a stiff drink) after all that, the pharmacist removes his lab coat and heads towards the break room for lunch. Grabbing a compounding jar on the way out he warns that “no one should come out back for a while, the customer is always right” adding a suggestive wink. Corporate had recently been putting an immense amount of pressure on us, stressing the need for us to have only “perfect” customer service surveys. Their goals were always unrealistic and what they expected us to accomplish with no resources or staff was always laughable. One of the things they always harped on was that we were “NEVER to send a customer away empty handed.” Hope they remember that credo when someone calls the customer service hotline and complains that someone sold their grandma a steaming hot jar of splooge.

That day we were the ones who got to share a good belly laugh for once. Even if only for a brief moment, our spirits were lifted as we braced ourselves for another evening rush. The moral of the story is be kind to your neighbor phamacy staff. We are overworked, underpaid and have been exposed to some of the most vile, bizarre, disgusting and disturbing shit known to mankind. Also, if you’re one of those people who calls the 1800 number at the end of your mile long receipt to complain that we were out of Ragu sauce despite being given a rain check for 30 jars, your mom’s a hoe. Just remember we handle your meds. Don’t fuck with us.