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If you need a prescription filled or a new bottle of contact solution, you better clear your calendar.
This morning, you probably woke up with acid reflux from eating wings and drinking High Noons all football Sunday. But unfortunately you drained your omeprazole prescription last week from doing the same exact thing. So now your day is ruined because you have to visit that little slice of hell known only by its initials — CVS.
Again, you aren’t some kind of socialist like Cousin Colin. On the surface, you have nothing against a giant retail pharmacy destroying the hundreds of mom and pop drugstores that used to populate every charming downtown area in America. You’re a busy guy, you’ll sacrifice some small town charm for a little convenience when necessary.
But you know that while many faceless corporate chains have indeed improved the efficiency of your everyday life, CVS is one miserable exception.
Reasons:
If you’re going to get your prescription filled, it better not be any kind of lifesaving medication. You need at least four days of trial and error before you’ll actually receive your drugs. Usually the adventure starts with the doctor calling it into the wrong CVS location, leading the pharmacist to stare at you with blank, dead eyes as you repeat your last name and date of birth for the third time.
The next day, you’ll try again. And it’s a slight improvement. This time, they acknowledge the prescription actually exists, but unfortunately they haven’t actually started filling it yet. You can either wait in one of the weird plastic chairs next to the coin-operated blood pressure cuff, with all the senior citizens waiting for flu shots, or you can come back later in the afternoon.
The old people smell funny, and one of them is picking at a visible open sore, so you decide to give it another go on your lunch break. The only problem with that idea is that the pharmacy closes for lunch. You thought that, like every other mainstream retail establishment in America, they would just stagger the lunch breaks of their employees so as to not actively inconvenience their customers. But apparently that was too generous an assumption, because when you return for the third time in 48 hours, a big metal cage is defending the pharmacy from any potential daylight heists. A handwritten sign that mistakenly reads “CLOSE 4 LUNCH” is Scotch taped to the window. It informs you that their break ends right at the exact time that your break ends. Perfect!
So then it’s the weekend, and you’re driving by with your toddler in the car. Acid has been eating away at your esophagus for 72 hours, but there’s no way you’re bringing a toddler into a CVS. You have enough off-brand stuffed animals, seasonal candy, and coloring books at home already. So you decide to brave the drive-thru. Much to your relief there are only two cars ahead of you, so it shouldn’t be too bad. But each customer apparently has a dozen questions about their own medical history, insurance coverage, dosage instructions, quantum physics, and the meaning of life.
After about twenty minutes, you’re ready to drag the overly-inquisitive driver out of their window and beat them senseless with your shoe, but the dulcet tones of the Moana soundtrack remind you that your kid is in the car. You stay calm, rock out to “You’re Welcome”, and wait patiently for your turn. Finally, you drive up to the window just as they pull down the bulletproof shade and tape their slapdash lunch break sign to it.
You’re shit out of luck once again.
At this point, CVS has the audacity to start texting you passive aggressive reminders to pick up your prescription before they destroy it. You text them back a GIF of a monkey eating his own feces, but it doesn’t seem like the number accepts replies.
On your fifth attempt, you finally obtain your prescription. You only had to wait in line for 45 minutes and watch eight of the nine patrons in front of you get turned away huffing and puffing without their medicine. You consider it one of your more successful visits.
Unfortunately, a few days later, you have to go back. You’re all out of deodorant and now have to brave the seventh circle of hell to grab some. Upon entering, you notice an armed security guard having an altercation with a shirtless man who is attempting to smuggle a box of tampons out of the store in his unwashed sweatpants.
You navigate cluelessly through the labyrinthian aisles. For some reason, you’ve been to CVS hundreds of times but are still unable to decode the floor plan. Is the deodorant in the Skin Care aisle? Personal Care? Men’s Care? You don’t care.
You finally locate it after wandering around and grumbling to yourself for about 15 minutes, but your journey still hasn’t ended. Because it carries such a hefty price tag, the deodorant is locked up and requires assistance from the security guard. He’s still engaged in hand-to-hand combat with the topless tampon thief, so you need to wait another 10 minutes for him to finish up and release the Speed Stick for you.
Also — why are there so many fucking dogs in this store? You almost tripped over at least two different leashes and now there’s a golden doodle rubbing his asshole against the toothbrush end cap display. You’re not exactly a germaphobe, but you’re not totally thrilled that the place distributing your face wash is also doubling as a canine shelter. There are old people picking at open sores ten feet away! Somebody’s going to get an infection and the four fucking days it takes to get their antibiotics will kill them.
Anyway, you’ve finally penetrated the plastic fortress containing the antiperspirant — which is convenient because you’ve now broken out in a full sweat. You need a cold drink and a snack to go with it. But the selection here is hot garbage. It’s a strange middle ground that's neither a grocery store nor a convenience store. If you’d like a can of plain chicken soup, a jar of mayonnaise, or a party-size bag of Tostitos, you’re in luck. Otherwise, keep moving — preferably off the edge of the earth.
It seems that your fateful shopping excursion is finally coming to an end. You only have one more obstacle to contend with — the dreaded self-checkout. Your fists clench reflexively as you encounter a group of bewildered souls with their items strewn about the bagging area. The machines are blinking and beeping wildly, declaring “help is on the way” as befuddled boomers shout questions about ExtraCare cards and discount coupons into the limitless void.
So, dear reader, the next time you find yourself at the entrance of a CVS, take a moment to ponder the existential horrors that lurk within its fluorescent-lit aisles. Proceed with caution, for in this liminal space, retail often takes an unexpected turn, and the checkout line may just lead you to the outer limits of your patience. You feel it just outside the boundaries of your perception — there is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension of sound, a dimension of sight, and a dimension of the mind. You see a red neon signpost up ahead. Your next stop? The Twilight Zone.