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From the novel Westlake Village by Harry Buschman
© by Harry Buschman
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
No Business of Mine
The Village, as I see it, has gone 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 long ago 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. Without so much as a "would you care for?" 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 just a plain old garden variety druggist -- 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. 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 Village elderly, all looking vainly for a place
to sit. The pharmacist is a Med school drop-out by the name of Ramahadjadan
Olipromidou. He fills prescriptions, period. You would get better advice from
your butcher than Rama if you had a Planter's Wart. If Rama had not passed his
last and final exam, he would be driving you to La Guardia. 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 outlived three of them. Every time I go to the
doctor he has to do a complete check-up from ground zero. Then he sends me to
a bearded specialist who has a room full of secret and "on the 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 as his assistant. They both look as though the last train has left from 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 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." 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 .... the 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 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!" 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, my dear?"
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 this autumn day 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 could expect without them. Then I read the print-outs.
Print-outs are
a new development in the pharmaceutical world. Bernie Shapiro
never gave you print-outs. He'd tell you when to take your pills and what to
expect if you didn't follow instructions. Today, you can't fit the print-outs
on the prescription, they are two and three pages long. They include your name,
the doctor's name, the pharmacist's name and the drug name. 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
growing sicker because of new and improved formulas.
My print-outs
seem strange to me. I am not pregnant and I am not avoiding
pregnancy. I am not knowingly spreading sexually transmitted diseases. Finally,
I must 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! .... But 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 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 it. Patty and me both know our most intimate and private secrets. 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 want any part of.
One thing I'm sure of, such a thing would never happen at Bernie Shapiro's drug store.
©Harry Buschman 1987
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