Drugstore Indian

DRUGSTORE INDIAN

In Bartell Drugs, I gave the pharmacist my prescription for prednisone.

“Is this your first fill with us?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “And it won’t be my last.”

I felt like an ass, but she looked bored.

“It’ll take thirty minutes,” she said. “More or less. We’ll page you over the speakers.”

I don’t think I’d ever felt weaker. Or more vulnerable. Or more absurd. I was the weak antelope in the herd—yeah, the mangy fucker with the big limp and a sign that read, “Eat Me! I’m a Gimp!”

So for thirty minutes I walked the store and found myself shoving more and more useful shit into my shopping basket, as if I were filling my casket with things I’d need in the afterlife. I grabbed toothpaste, a Swiss Army knife, moisturizer, mouthwash, nonstick Band-Aids, antacid, protein bars, and extra razor blades. I grabbed pen and paper. And I also grabbed an ice scraper and sunscreen. Who can predict what kind of weather awaits us in Heaven?

This random shopping made me feel better for a few minutes, but then I stopped and walked to the toy aisle. My boys needed gifts, Lego cars or something, for a lift, a shot of capitalist joy. But the selection of proper toys is both an art and a science. I have been wrong as often as right and have heard the sad song of a disappointed son.

Shit, I knew that if I died my sons would survive, even thrive, because of their graceful mother.

I thought of my father’s life. He had been just six when his father was killed in the Second World War. Then his mother, ill with tuberculosis, had died a few months later. Six years old and my father was cratered. In most ways, he never stopped being six. There was no religion, no magic, and no song or dance that could have helped my father.

I needed a drink of water, so I found the fountain and drank and drank until the pharmacist called my name.

“Have you taken these before?” she asked.

I said, “No, but they’re going to kick my ass, aren’t they?”

That made the pharmacist smile, so I felt sadly and briefly worthwhile. But another customer, some nosy hag, said, “You’ve got a lot of sleepless nights ahead of you.”

I was shocked. I stammered, glared at her, and said, “Miss, how is this any of your business? Please, just fuck all the way off, O.K.?”

She had no idea what to say, so she just turned and walked away, and I pulled out my credit card and paid far too much for my goddam steroids, and forgot to bring the toys home to my boys.


Sherman Alexie

from his new book WAR DANCES
Posted over on The New Yorker