Maynard Soloman Solves the War on Drugs (Funny Detective Stories #1)
Page 3
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The pharmacy turns out to be some shithole with a state-of-the-art drive-through. I guess even places like these have standards.
Another standard? A 10-foot clearance. Which means the ‘bago needs to shave off another a few feet. I ain’t cutting off the roof for this kid, so I park and get out.
The place is deserted except for me and this metal box. I stand there for a bit lookin’ at the thing. It’s not talkin’ at me yet.
In my years, I’ve learned that customer service is a luxury that must be demanded. Asking for help nowadays is like organ donation. You’d better have a good reason. And nothing conveys reason better than a round of healthy cursing.
“Hey, you blasphemous pillock. If you’re done bogging off, I need some gal-damn service,” I say and kick the box a couple times. Ouch, my knees. They hurt like bastards. “Are you in there? Or am I talking into the ass end of a robot?”
After a few seconds of lollygagging, this woman’s voice comes over the line. She sounds sleepy and scratchy, like a drunk scarecrow.
“Can I…help you?” the woman says.
“My ‘bago won’t fit through your drive-through. I need some medicine.”
“Your bagel?”
“No, my gal-damn RV. It’s too tall. So I’m on foot. It didn’t trip the thing that tells you I’m here. But I’m here now. Take my order,” I say.
The woman coughs. I can’t tell if she’s laughing. “Sorry, sir, we don’t take walk-ups in the drive-through. You’ll have to come back when the store opens.”
You’ve got to be shitting me. We can put a man on the moon, but we can’t figure out a drive-through. “What do I need to do? Call a cab or something?”
“That’s one option.”
“You honestly expect me to pay for a cab? The drive-through isn’t 30 feet long.”
“Sir, you have to be sitting above four wheels. It’s policy.”
“What about a shopping cart? I could paddle my way through like a gal-damn canoe.”
“It’s not my problem.”
Mother of Lucifer, I about lost it right then and there on that crone. You just cannot get decent customer service any more. It’s no surprise. Everyone’s so gal-damn soft nowadays. I’m surprised they don’t crack in half when they wipe.
Normally, I would’ve hung it up at this point. But I feel I owe it to that kid for fixin’ the RV. Does that mean I’d pay for a cab to go 30 feet?
Yes.
Ladies and gentlemen, good ol’ Maynard Soloman does have a heart. I keep it preserved in a jar of piss and vinegar in my chest. Like a pickle.
The cab comes. It’s $5 to sit down, $7 for the medicine, $8 to wait for the pharmacist to find the medicine, $4 to go to the end of the drive-through and $1 for the pikey driver’s tip. He’s got the goolies to ask me if I want to be dropped off at the ‘bago.
I just laugh and get out, $25 poorer.