The Writers Voice
The World's
Favourite Literary Website
No Business of Mine
by
Harry Buschman
The Village, as I see it, is going downhill. As it's grown in size, it's lost
the warm and caring intimacy it once had. Just a few short years ago
hospitality in Westlake was similar to what it must have been in the antebellum
South.
A man might stop by his neighbors house on a warm Saturday afternoon and sit
under a spreading maple to pass the time of day. Through the deafening chatter
of cicadas, he would be pleasantly surprised by the clink of ice cubes in a
pitcher of lemonade on its way from the kitchen to a table in the shade.
Why am I homesick for the simple things of life? And, even more painfully,
why does the face of Bernie Shapiro come back to haunt me?
Because Bernie Shapiro was a microcosm of all that was good in the world of
drug stores. He was our druggist. No, he was not a pharmacist or an apothecary,
he was a plain old garden variety druggist with his license number in gold
leaf on his window front -- didn't even wear a white coat. In those forgotten
antebellum days, when you couldn't get the doctor off his ass on a weekend, you
could always get Bernie.
Well, you can't get Bernie any more, and the nearest thing you can get to a
drug store is the CVS Pharmacy in the mall. While you're there you can buy lawn
furniture, industrial detergent, and tennis shoes. The pharmacy itself is a
hole in the wall back off in the corner. It is crowded with the ailing Village
elderly, all looking vainly for a place to sit - and finding none. The
pharmacist is a Med school drop-out carrying the impossible name of Ramahadjadan
Olipromidou. He fills prescriptions, period. You would get better advice from
your
butcher than you would from Ramaif you had a Planter's Wart. If Rama had not
passed his last and final exam, he would be driving you to La Guardia
Airport. Bernie Shapiro, on the other hand, could lance a boil if you had one.
If
your prostate kept you up at night, Bernie had a solution. Styes, sprained
ankles
and nose bleeds -- they were Bernie's bread and butter.
I go to the doctor a lot. I've outlasted three of them -- they all have homes
in Boca Raton now. Every time I go to a new doctor he ignores my printed
record and has to do a complete check-up from ground zero. Then, off I go to his
referral, a bearded specialist with a room full of secret and "cutting edge"
equipment that Medicare and I am helping him pay for.
After the MRI's, the EKG's, and the tests for stress and strain, I find
myself back again in the CVS Pharmacy with a handful of prescriptions. A rough
count of noses would reveal twenty or so senior Westlake Villagers all clamoring
for immediate attention. Beads of perspiration are forming on the brow of
Ramahadjadan and the little lost rabbity creature assigned to him as an
assistant.
They both look as though the last train has left Calcutta without them.
There is a free blood pressure machine in the corner and elderly people are
gathered around it waiting turns. It is the only legitimate doctor in the
house. "What's yours," says one old man to me. "Mine reads 300 over 198." He
thinks
a minute. "That's better than last week, that Doctor Katchatourian is a
wonder .... do you go to him?"
"No," I reply. "I'm a Siegel man."
Everybody is told he or she must wait fifteen minutes. "Personally, I will
announce your name on the intercom. You go shop in the store." Ramahadjadan
smiles nervously. His tiny receptionist, like a parakeet, bobs her head in
agreement. The old folks wander through the store checking out the
contraceptives,
diapers. From the stock of diapers, it is questionable how effective the
condoms must be. I wonder if I should buy an umbrella -- they're having a
clearance
on umbrellas -- and there's something I could use! A twenty pound bag of
charcoal! Just as I am about to heave the bag on my shoulder, I hear my name
from
a speaker embedded in the ceiling. "Mr. Buscahaman, Hurry!" I am used to
things like this. I can't ever remember being called by my right name. Even the
"Hurry" part. Unless I make sure the loop is closed on the 'a' in Harry, they'll
call me "Hurry" every time.
The parakeet has difficulty finding my sack of prescriptions. "Under 'B' I
say" .... I try to be helpful. Yes, there it is, I can read my name all the way
from the check out counter. She, with her nose touching it, cannot see it.
"There -- there you've got it now. You're red hot!" I say, as she moves it aside
to look at another one.
"Hurry Buscahaman. Yes, cash or charge?"
You would need a wheelbarrow to bring that much cash into CVS .... "To your
knowledge, has anyone ever paid cash for a prescription in here, young lady?" I
can't help asking her.
There is the flickering suggestion of a smile but it's quickly extinguished
as she swipes my ragged Master Card through her well oiled machine.
In the fading light of an autumn afternoon I sit in my car and check out my
prescriptions. Fresh troops are ready to join the silent battle being waged in
my body They are like faithful soldiers promising me free and easy bowel
movements, a sparkling complexion, and a better blood sugar ratio than I have a
right to expect. Then I read the print-outs.
Print-outs are a new development in the pharmaceutical world. Bernie Shapiro
never gave you print-outs. He told you when to take your pills and what to
expect if you didn't follow his instructions. Today, you can't fit the
print-outs
in the prescription sack, they are two and three pages long. They include
your name, the doctor's name, the pharmacist's name, the drug name and the name
of its generic twin. They include "Common Uses", "How to Use", "Cautions", and
"Possible Side Effects". I have a book full of these print-outs because the
ingredients change from time to time, and as time passes many doctors find their
patients reacting strangely because of new and improved formulas.
My print-outs seem strange to me. I am not pregnant nor am I avoiding
pregnancy. I am not knowingly spreading sexually transmitted diseases. Finally,
I
must remember to make my doctor aware of any persistent or recurrent vaginal
bleeding or difficulty in wearing contact lenses immediately! Something's wrong!
My doctor is not Sydney Belcher and Goddamn, my name isn't Patty Funstedt! ....
Now wait a minute!!
I know the Funstedt family well. Brian and Betty! They live over on eighth
Street. They were second generation Westlake Villagers. My daughter graduated
grade school with Betty Funstedt .... this must be their daughter Patty! .... My
God! She can't be more than fifteen. She's a pompom girl. I've seen her on
the football field .... green skirt, little white bodice with gold braid and her
pompoms always at the ready. She's on birth control pills?!!
The light is almost gone now. I feel I must do something. Does her family
know?
Then the full implication dawns on me! She must have my print-outs instead of
hers -- I'm in on the secret. Patty and me both know our most intimate and
private lives. Hers are the secrets of youth and temptation, mine are the
secrets of old age. By some strange and incongruous twist of fate Patty and I
are
linked in a way neither of us would ever want a part of.
One thing I'm sure of, such a thing would never happen at Bernie Shapiro's
drug store.
©Harry Buschman 1987
(1300)
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