We can’t do that

I finally got around to going to the new CVS here in Connecticut.
I went to the back to the pharmacy.

“Hi, can I help you?” the girl at the counter welcomed me.

“Yeah, Hi, I just moved here and I want to make sure you have my insurance information and stuff like that.”

“Oh, no problem. Did you have a CVS account where you used to live?”

“Yeah, Nesconset, Long Island, New York. John Higgins.”

She turned to her computer. “Let me look it up. Welcome to Connecticut by the way! How do you like it here?”

“It’s good. It takes some getting used to. Everybody’s so different.”

“Really?” she laughed a little, “in what way?”

“Every way, honestly. They’re literally ‘all different,’ I did that annoying air quote thing with my fingers.

“Right, but how are they different, like, the way they act, talk, what?”

“No, in every perceptible way. They’re actually different people. I guess I should’ve expected that when I moved to a different place.”

Her face stayed aimed at the screen but her eyes rolled up and stared at nothingness for a moment.
She stretched her eyebrows up as if she wanted to say “wow, you’re an idiot” but didn’t want to get fired.
Instead she said, “I have your info. John Higgins, Nesconset, 11767, Long Island Medical…”

“That’s me.”

“Same insurance info?”

“Yup.”

“OK,” she tapped that little pedestal swipe thing on the counter, “just put your new address on this screen and you’re all set.”

“Great. Let me ask you, do you deliver?”

“Yes we do. I can enter you in the system as a delivery customer if you’d like.”

“Yes please. Oh, and listen, when you deliver my prescription, bring a pizza too.”

“We’re not bringing a pizza.”

“Why not? You deliver…”

“Prescriptions only.”

“Would it kill you to throw a pie in the car on your way?”

She shook her head with not so much a smile but that tight lip thing that trumpeters do but without the horn.

“…Wait, how far are you from the dry cleaners?”

“Is this the correct delivery address?” she asked, ignoring my last question.

“Yup.”

“Ok is that all there is Mr. Higgins?”

“Uh, one more question,” I pointed behind her, “Why does the pharmacist stand on that platform?”

She turned at looked at the woman in the white coat pouring something into a small bottle.
“I don’t know. It’s like that at all pharmacies.”

“I know. Weird right? It’s like every Walgreens, CVS, Rite Aid, whatever has that raised platform for the pharmacist to stand on while they’re counting out pills. Makes no sense.” I shrugged, “Whatever. Just thought maybe you’d know.”

Nothing.

“Oh hey, one last thing, where do you have stuff for athlete’s foot?

“Aisle 6. Right hand side.”

“Thanks.” I took a step toward aisle 6 then turned back. “I can’t begin to tell you the irony of me suffering from an affliction that strikes athletes. Shakespeare couldn’t make that one up…”

She closed her eyes, I believe, in the hope that when she reopened them I’d be gone.

“…that fungus is the closest I’ll ever get to being an athlete.”

“Next?” She called over my shoulder. I turned to see no one behind me. I got the point.

On my way to the check out, I picked up a spray for my foot. At the register I swiped my card and three receipt options came up:
1. Print
2. Email
3. Print and Email.
The cashier told me to pick one. I guess because I was staring in dumb amazement for too long.
I told her I didn’t like any of the options and I asked her if she would sing the receipt to me instead.
She refused.
I told her that I would like the email option but I don’t have a computer and asked if she would print out the receipt, put it in an envelope, and mail it to my house.

“We can’t do that,” she said.

“Can’t?” I asked.

“Won’t,” she clarified.

“Ok. Off topic. Let me ask you a question, Why not just hire really tall pharmacists?”

“What? Why?”

“This way they wouldn’t need those ridiculous platforms to stand on in the back.”

“Is that all for today,sir?”

“uh, well…”

“Have a nice day, sir.”