| The pharmacist liked the matches. “Nice work,” he said. “I can see handing these around.” “Thanks,” Joe said, and he sneezed. Again. “Coming down with one?” “I don’t know if it’s a new cold or the same cold,” Joe said. He blew his nose. “I got better then I got the shakes a few nights ago. Dreams all night long. Got the cartoon, the newsreel, the double feature. Now I got the cough coming.” “Could be the flu,” the pharmacist said. “The cold knocks you down then the flu steps in. Here.” He reached behind and picked a bottle off the shelf. “Give this a try.” Joe looked at the label, frowning. “Creomulsion? It sounds like something they do to your body after you die of the cold." "Folks like it." "Folks liked the Indians to win the Series." "Folks liked the Browns to win the championship." "Got got a point. Okay, I’ll give it a try.” “Sixty cents.” He took Joe’s dollar, put forty cents and a matchbook on the counter. “There’s some information on Creomulsion inside.” Joe looked at the matchbook. “No narcotics. Just my luck. Say, you know the fellow who used to run the United drugstore down on –“ “The deaf guy? Johnson. Ed Johnson. Such a shame. He used to fill your prescription? They all went over to the Rexall.” “No. He was a client – well, I hoped he’d be one. I designed some matchbooks for him too. I stopped by this morning. The windows were soaped up.” “Yeah, Ed’s gone.” The pharmacist shook his head. “Came as a bit of a shock.” “I’m sorry. I guess he didn’t . . . suffer? Long, I mean.” “Not yet, if he’s lucky. He ran out on everyone. Stiffed his supplier, overdrew his bank accounts, left everyone of us in the neighborhood holding the bag. And he emptied the bag, too. He’s probably in Mexico by now.” “Oh.” “And they’re welcome to him. No one liked Ed. He was a mean, hard man half the time, and never had a good word for the customers. 'The daily parade of crips and snifflers,' he called them , and that’s when he was in a charitable mood, although it was hard to tell when one of those came upon him. See, most people in this business know they’re an odd breed. Neither fish nor fowl, the pharmacist. We’re not doctors, but, we know some doctoring. We don’t make doctor money but we do okay, because everyone’s just decided they don’t want to pay janitor wages to the fellow who grinds up mom’s rheumatism medicine. Half the people who come here are embarrassed to be sick, truth be told. It’s like they’re confessing. So we’re priests too. You learn to live with it all, and it sure could be worse, but there’s a reason most of us retire and move somewhere warm where no one knows what we did. You just get sick of looking at pills and old people all day, and you figure you’ve earned a little Florida sunshine. Ed was no different in that respect. Maybe just less patient.” “Huh.” Joe looked down at the bottle in his hand. “So what’s in this stuff? “Dextromethorphan. It’s a disassociative anesthetic. Don’t take too much or you’ll see pink elephants. Then you’ll be a pink elephant. I’ll sell you second bottle, but not for a few days.” The pharmacist shook his head. “Ed sold that stuff by the case.” ---- Cremomulsion. Dextromethorphan. The 55 Browns. |
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