A Bad Experience at the Drug Store

From my senior year in high school through my sophomore year in college, I worked at CVS Pharmacy as a clerk/cashier.

I remember clearly when I got the call back offering me the position. I was beyond thrilled and, after hanging up the phone, my family and I jumped up and cheered as if I had just won the McArthur Genius Grant. I had been trying to land a job for several depressing years and I immediately promised myself that I would never take this new, long-awaited opportunity for granted.

I was an excellent employee. I was friendly, patient, punctual and always willing to learn. But perhaps most importantly, I was racked with guilt and self loathing. I realized later on that this was the unfortunate key to my success. People sent in complements to my boss about it.

To clarify this odd point:

I realized rather early on that when dealing with an angry customer (which I would say averaged 1 out of every 5), the absolute best practice was to quickly accept all of the blame for whatever was causing the perturbation.

A product was sold out? I am so sorry. A coupon was expired? I am so sorry. There was a long line at the register? I’m so sorry. A customer was having a bad day? I am so, so sincerely sorry.

“Mea Culpa” became my motto and my craft. Arguments were defused by my apologies, and those who were truly irate about something simply stormed out, or said “well, you should be,” and that was the end of the ordeal. It was an acceptable situation for a while, because I felt like I deserved it, that these were trials I needed to go through with open and apologetic arms.

Mary, one of my shift managers, didn’t quite work like that.

Mary was 70 years old and had been working at that same CVS for over 35 years. She worked there before it was even bought out by CVS.

Mary did not apologize or bend to the insults or demands of disrespectful customers, whom she affectionately referred to as “freaking idiots.”

Because there were two “Marys” who had worked at the store, Mary was known as “The Mean Mary” by customers who had been particularly snubbed by her uncompromising methods. It was a title she held with pride.

The beloved matriarch of the store, she was someone you did not want to piss off or have as an enemy. After a few months of working together, I was fortunate enough to have her as my dear friend.

In the early mornings, Mary would sneak me orange juice and crackers. In the evenings, she would bring me beef jerky and pistachios. Here I was, 18, 19, 20 years old, fed periodic snacks like a kindergartner.

There was rarely a shift that went by that Mary didn’t bitterly mutter to me she was going to quit.

But she was always there, behind that counter, scowling at customer complaints.

There was only one night where I witnessed a customer leave Mary speechless and shaken.

It was around 9:45 p.m., and we were getting ready to close the store at 10 p.m. It had been a long day, as I recall.

A tall man in a ripped, paint-stained hoodie came into the quiet store as Mary and I hustled to finish cleaning up.

He circled the store a few times before coming up to me and holding up the store’s weekly flyer that had expired that afternoon.

“I’m looking for this fan,” he said, pointing to a picture of a fan. “It’s not where it’s supposed to be.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, in my well rehearsed “mea culpa” manner. “I think we sold out of those. Really sorry about that.”

“It says clearly in your magazine that you have it,” the man said. “I don’t understand the point of the magazine if it’s just going to lie to me.”

“We’re out of the fan,” Mary, who had overheard the man, said quickly and coldly from the middle isle. “And we’re closing.”

The man was taken aback by the abruptness of Mary’s comment for a moment, but recovered. He turned to her and raised her voice.

“Look lady,” he said, towering over her, “I don’t know what the hell kind of day you have had, but my day has been shit, and you speaking to me that way has made it worse.”

Mary started to respond, but was cut off.

“I want to speak to the manager.”

“I am the shift manager,” Mary said.

“YOU’RE the manager?” the man yelled and laughed in disbelief. “That is just sad. That is really sad. Well, I want the name and number of YOUR BOSS.”

Mary went around the counter and got a paper and a pen as the man continued standing there steaming and fidgeting.

I watched as she wrote down the name and number of the store’s manager and hand the man the paper.

He took the note from her hand and stormed out of the automatic doors.

The store was silent again.

“Great,” said Mary, embarrassed and tired. “I hope they fire me.”

She retreated to the back of the store to finish stocking as I stayed up front.

After a few minutes, the man strutted back through the doors and turned to me.

“Where did she go?” he said. I said nothing.

“Look kid, I don’t just want her manager’s name and number, I want the number of corporate, and I want HER name,” he grunted, handing me the note.

I looked up at him, suddenly feeling an intense, uncontrollable anger.

“Now you listen here, asshole, ” I said, forgetting my “mea culpa” motto, the swear words an unfamiliar taste. His eyebrows rose from my words. “If you don’t get the hell out of this store and stop harassing its employees, I’m calling the fucking police,” I continued, my voice getting louder and louder. “Do you want to try me?” I said wildly. I could feel my face burning as I stared into his dull gray eyes with all the rage and anguish I had been hiding for so long.

“If you want the number for corporate, you can use a damn phonebook. Now get out of here!”

The man attempted to speak, but produced no words. He turned and sulked through the doors for the final time.

I would have felt relief and satisfaction at my ability to stand up for the dignity of myself and, more importantly, of the dignity of my friend and adviser when she was put down. Only, that’s not really what happened.

And as I wrote down the Mary’s name and the number of corporate on the note he handed me, I apologized for his bad experience at CVS Pharmacy.

As habitual as my apologies had become, I have never been able to extend one toward the one person who deserves it the most, the person I’d let down so completely in that moment.

I’m sorry, Mary.