The story of Two Scoops.
There was a gentleman I met today at work. I will refer to him fondly as "Two Scoops" from now on. I will probably never lay eyes on him again and I never have before to my knowledge.
My day began like most of my Saturdays at [REDACTED] and I was alone for the first 30 mins of the day. During this time, which was busier than usual for me. The phone was ringing constantly and there were people dropping off or needing 'scripts right THEN. But, oddly, there were a couple minutes of peace before I met my next customer.
I had just put down the phone and was finishing writing the information on the voicemail when I looked up to see a massive overladen cart of some kind, covered in clear tupperware boxes you'd use to organize your christmas ornaments if you were that anal of a person. Thrown over it were a few battered old blankets and hanging around it was a distressingly biological stench. Having worked in a pharmacy long enough I have learned the many, varied scents a human body is capable of producing, and this one was a champion at it. Yet I hadn't lain eyes upon the individual yet. Then I see a mirror appear on top of the huge cart and blankets. Then a man wrapped in a heavy jacket, unkempt beard and wool winter hat stepped out from behind the cart. Aha, the odor was identified as having an owner. I walked over to him and asked, "Hi, how can I help you?" as though the little card upon which it was written had been tattooed inside my skull.
And here the trolly careened a sharp left turn straight into the twisted yet homey back alleys of "Crazytown"
He indicated that he would like some Sudafed 12 hour, but then immediately returned to busying himself about the small lobby of my pharmacy placing salvaged and broken mirrors around on the floor and countertop. They looked like the halfdome mirrors, or fragments of them, that he had found in dumpsters or perhaps broken and stolen. (After years working in a pharmacy I don't have any illusions as to how people often procure things they want.) Then, once they appear to be set up to his exacting standards, he returns his attention to me and points to behind the counter where we keep the pseudoephedrine containing products. He states in a clear and lucid fashion how he'd like a box of Sudafed 12 hour. As I turn to procure them for him, he says, "No, stop. I want you to get me the fourth one back. The government's replacing my sudafed so I want the fourth one back."
At this point the yellow lights in my head turn red and the Starfleet officers begin running down the corridors towards their assigned stations.
I reach up and pick up the stack of sudafed boxes, reaching for the fourth one and he once again interjects. "No, pull them all down so I can see you get the fourth one." Now, I'm not vastly dexterous, and the shelving plan has these items packed in so tight beside the products on either side that getting a sharp knife between them is somtimes a challenge, so, predictably I drop them. When I lean down to pick them up and present him with the one I know to be the fourth he panics and steps back. "No!" He says, "Get me one of the ones up there still, two back from what's left."
At this point I wouldn't have argued with this man if it meant me winning the lottery.
"It's not you." He says, trying to reassure me that he's not going to leap the counter and knife me with some make shift weapon that he used a real knife to make. "I just don't trust the government." Then I finally, to his satisfaction, pick up a box of sudafed and hand it to him without swapping it for mind control agent orange fluoride sterilization pills. The moment the box is within arm's reach he snatches it from my hand and grips it in a grip that a death grip would give a second thought about fucking with. He holds the box in a fist so tight it begins to buckle. The lightsaber grip he has on this points the barcode at me and he says, "Just ring it up."
I do, taking his ID in the process. It's required now everywhere for pseudoephedrine sales, and he clearly knows this. There are portions of this conversation so mundane and sane that they're like the black between the lines of neon at a rave. I quickly ring him up and hand him back his ID. Payment comes in the form of a Food Stamp Debit Card with a $10 bill wrapped grubbily around it. He stands there, constantly checking the mirrors to make sure no one is coming up behind him while I have to pick the small fragments of masking tape holding the bill to the card. The bill is, predictably, covered in a well worn combination of sweat and grime. After what felt like an eternity, the bill came loose and I quickly completed the transaction before retreating back to my station. Without another word to me he packed up his mirrors, and then departed back down the aisle to the front.
After I had washed my hands and the smell had finished leaning on the counter and chatting with me for a few minutes, I realized I had started my day the right way, with Two Scoops of Crazy in every box!