Waiting for a balm in Gilead
I handed my pill bottle to the young girl behind the counter. She dutifully went off to perform whatever ceremony one does to ensure I am in the Walgreen’s system. I’m waiting. Seemed like only yesterday I was so care free. Then I turned 40 and my warranty ran out. Now I might be coming to a place like this every 3 months for the rest of my life. But better this place than the alternative offered by my high blood pressure. For a new “old guy”, all this is very fresh. And now I’m anxious to top it all off. I was about 2 minutes into digging this craterous monument to self-pity when I was distracted by an oddly familiar sight. Behind her stood row upon row of shelves stacked to the ceiling with pills and other assorted medical accoutrements. Hand-written signs were taped in front, alerting the cadre of health-care technicians to the alphabetical order constraining the chaos of their pharmacological candy factory. Another worker waited patiently on speaker phone with just the rig