A World of Possibility

by ASMSG Authors

I parked in the lot of the 24-hour pharmacy at precisely 9:55 P.M. and walked toward the store to begin my shift—the graveyard shift. I heard thunder in the distance. A storm’s rolling in, I thought. It’s going to be slow tonight. I shivered and pulled the coat collar tighter around my neck.

  As I arrived at the prescription counter, the pharmacist I was relieving patted my shoulder and said, “It’s all yours.” He grabbed his coat, turned and walked out as if I no longer existed.

  A few customers roamed the aisles and a couple of people stopped by to pick up prescriptions called in earlier. At midnight, the assistant manager—flat-butted, no hips, a pimply-faced string bean—walked over and handed me the keys to his kingdom.

  He repeated his nightly script. “Sam, my man, time for me to go home and take care of the wife, if you know what I mean.” He looked like he was 12 and I thought of asking him if he knew what that meant, but I resisted. He gave me a smug smile, turned on his heel and walked out of my life for another 24 hours.

  Now in charge, I relaxed and prepared to do some studying. That’s the whole reason I work this upside-down shift—so I can study and still pay the bills. I sleep some in the morning, go to class for an advanced clinical degree in the afternoon and work all night.

  Fortunately, the overnight shift is always dead, but I never say that. Not in front of the customers, anyway. It’s bad karma, what with all the robberies and shootings in the news. But it’s quiet most of the time. Even though the drugstore is located in the heart of San Antonio’s medical center, with seven hospitals within a two-mile radius, there’s little store traffic during the wee hours of the morning.

  A quick set of instructions to Jeremy, my clerk and the only other employee in the store, kept him busy in between helping the occasional customer.

  I heard a strange noise, like metal clanging, and realized that rain was pelting the roof. Maybe it’s hail. It’s going to be an easy night.

  I pulled out the research paper I had been working on for the last week and continued my analysis of recent cardiac drug studies. My goal was to develop a noteworthy comparison solely to impress my clinical professors.

  When I began to formulate a particularly witty conclusion, I heard the door chime. I looked up robotically. The pharmacy is situated at the rear of the store and elevated about a foot above the retail space. I usually looked up when the door chimed since I had a panoramic view of the entire store and anyone entering it.

  This customer was a twenty-something white male. He was dressed in oversized jeans about to fall to his knees, and a hoodie. Walking in, he pulled the hood down, retrieved a baseball cap from his pocket and put it on backwards.

  He rubbed his face with jittery hands and I got suspicious. I realized I was profiling and almost turned my attention back to my research paper, but decided to keep an eye on the man a little longer.

  He looked around, spotted the prescription counter and shuffled toward me. He looked down every aisle before approaching the pharmacy. Acid churned in my stomach and inched up my esophagus like an expanding bubble. This is it, I thought. I’m about to be robbed.

  The man circled the store twice before walking up to the counter. He grimaced slightly as he stood there. I looked at his hands for a possible gun, or a note demanding the store’s cash, or worse yet, all the narcotics. His hands were empty, but they were shaking. A meth head, I decided.

  Shifting from one foot to the other, he grinned. I saw a few empty spaces where teeth used to be. I hesitated for as long as I dared, squared my shoulders and walked toward him. I positioned myself behind the cash register, the only barrier in sight.

  He handed me a piece of paper. “I’m in a lot of pain. Can you rush this?”

  I looked at the form. It was a special triplicate prescription, the kind doctors use only for strong narcotics. The order was for Percocet tablets, a popular pain-reliever containing oxycodone. I frowned and looked at him. He frowned also, stepped back and asked, “What?”

  Words failed me. I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing. Looking at the paper again, I recognized the physician’s signature. I’d seen it often enough on other late night prescriptions. I exhaled audibly, decided to ignore the incongruity of a street dude presenting a legitimate narcotic prescription and said, “No problem. It’s an unusual order from an ER physician, but I’ll see if I have it in stock.”

  While I walked to the narcotic safe, I studied the paper and stopped dead in my tracks. The prescription had been altered. An obvious number one had been added in front of the original quantity of twenty. The change to one hundred and twenty tablets was subtle, but the ink was not quite a match.

  I was holding a forgery! Now what?

  Verify popped into my mind. Before I did anything else, I had to confirm that the doctor had not sloppily changed the original quantity. I walked to the other end of my workspace, as far from the register as possible, and called the emergency room. The doctor confirmed that only twenty tablets had been ordered.

  “I should never have prescribed oxy,” the physician blurted out. “That guy came in with a nasty gash to his torso. I stitched him up and prescribed hydrocodone, but he said he was allergic to it.” The doctor was silent for a moment before adding, “It was a jagged wound, could have been self-inflicted now that I think about it. Cancel the order and call the police.”

  I agreed and hung up. I mentally reviewed company policy as stated in the handbook. “When presented with a suspected forged prescription, call the police if you can. Always be discreet and keep yourself safe.”

  Feeling isolated, I glanced toward the patient waiting area. The man was staring at me. I smiled, he smiled and I could taste bile and stomach acid burning my throat. I managed to shout out, “Got you covered. Take a seat and I’ll have it out in about 10 minutes.”

  Moving to the computer, I pretended to process the order. I stopped abruptly, as if a call had just come in, and answered a dead line. I slowly dialed 911, identified myself and quietly reported, “I’ve got a forged prescription in progress and need immediate assistance.”

  The 911 operator took pertinent information and said, “Stall for time, the streets are slick and all police cruisers in the area are dispatched to traffic accidents.” She promised to redirect one as soon as possible.

  About then, a familiar customer walked up to the counter. She was a nurse from one of the hospital ER’s, a different one from where the forgery originated. Usually with dark circles under her eyes from a long night, she’d come in to shop and wind down from her shift before heading home. After several times of just waving, we started talking and became friends. She brushed rain out of her hair and asked, “How’s it going tonight, Sam?”

  I looked from her to the forger and got back with the 911 operator. “Please hurry. He’s staring at me and I’ve got another customer here.” I disconnected and walked up to the nurse. “Hi, Mary. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Yeah, I waved, but you didn’t look up.”

  “I’m kind of busy right now.” I turned toward the forger. He seemed to be concentrating on my every word. “I have to take care of this patient.”

  She glanced over her shoulder toward the man. “I have a quick question for the pharmacist.” She looked back at me. “How strong are these asthma inhalers you have out front here? My son’s running out of his prescription and I forgot to ask one of the docs to write a new one.” She looked toward the front door. “With this rain, I’d hate to go back for a script.”

  “I don’t think they’d be strong enough from what you’ve told me about his asthma. I could call one of your ER docs and take a phone order.”

  She smiled and pulled a card from her pocket. “Call this doc. He’s a friend. He’ll be happy to give you the order.” She wrote the name of the inhaler her son was using on the back of the card. “I’ll browse the aisles while I wait.” She turned toward the forger. “Sorry to jump ahead.” She took a closer look at the man and asked, “Are you okay?
You look pale. Maybe you should use that blood pressure machine over there to check your vitals.”

  He shrugged, but didn’t say anything. Mary raised an eyebrow and stared at the man for a moment longer before walking off to shop.

  I looked toward the guy and smiled. He asked, “How much longer, man?” He held his side and winced. He appeared to lose focus.

  “Maybe you should check your blood pressure. Are you feeling light-headed?”

  “I’m fine. Just fill the prescription, okay?”

  “I’ll get right on it.” I moved to my computer and continued the pretense of processing his order. At the same time, I wedged the phone between my ear and chin and dialed 911 again. I got a different operator. I explained my situation quietly and asked, “What’s taking so long? He’s getting nervous.”

  “I pulled up your emergency and it’s dispatched to the next available officer. The problem is there are several weather-related traffic accidents…”

  “I know, but this guy’s getting nervous and I can’t stall him much longer.”

  “The closest cruiser is dealing with injuries. As soon as they’re free, they’ll be on their way. I’m bumping up your priority now.”

  I glanced toward the forger. He was looking at me. He nodded. I nodded back and turned toward my computer. I stared at the screen. I took this job so that I could study, not catch criminals. Maybe I should say I don’t have the drug in stock. He could go to another pharmacy, be someone else’s problem. I knew I couldn’t do that—wouldn’t do that—and sighed. Wait it out. Help will be here soon.

  Hoping to see a blue uniform enter, I looked toward the front door. None appeared, but I saw another regular customer walk in. No, this isn’t happening. First Mary and now I’ve got Ms. Huffington in the store.

  Ms. Huffington was a gentle, white-haired lady with insomnia. After a few conversations with her, I realized she was lonely and came in for some company. She’d ask silly questions to pass the time. At first I was irritated by the distraction from my studies, but soon I looked forward to our conversations. I watched her shake out her rain-soaked umbrella, close it and head my way. No, I can’t deal with you now. Go do your shopping.

  In my peripheral vision, I saw the guy get up from his chair and move toward me. I backed away from the computer instinctively, stopping only when the phone cord threatened to come out of the wall.

  He moved to the condom aisle and scanned the merchandise. He leaned over to read a label and his hoodie rode up, revealing a gun tucked in the back of his pants. More bile and acid surged up my esophagus. The mix was about to erupt like a volcano.

  Where’d he get the gun? He couldn’t have had it in the ER! Maybe he had it hidden in his car. Maybe he has an accomplice waiting out there now. If the police don’t hurry, I could be facing more guys like this one…with guns…in the store…with customers around.

  I took a deep breath. Why doesn’t he point that gun at me, demand all the narcotics and get this over with? I dialed 911 again. I recognized the voice of the original operator I had spoken to. “This is the pharmacist with the forgery in progress. He’s got a gun and he’s in the condom aisle.”

  “The police aren’t there?”

  “No, what’s taking them so long?”

  “Is he pointing it at you?”

  “The gun?”

  “Yes, where’s the gun?”

  “In his pants—the gun, not the condoms.”

  “I understand. Please take a deep breath. Your emergency is now top priority. Police will be with you shortly.”

  “Tell them to hurry! I’ve got a horny, impatient forger watching my every move and he’s got a gun in his pants. And there are other customers in the store about to get in the middle of this mess.” I scanned the store and saw Jeremy talking to Ms. Huffington, Mary strolling two aisles over and the forger reading condom labels. “I can’t protect everyone. Someone’s bound to get hurt.”

  “Please stay calm. Can I call you Sam?”

  “What?”

  “Earlier, you said your name was Sam Delany. Can I call you Sam?”

  I looked at the phone, shook my head and then put the phone back to my ear. “Sure, call me whatever you like. Just get the police here.”

  “They’re on their way, only a few minutes out. Act like you’re working on his prescription, but stall.”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing, lady?”

  I picked up the nearest bottle and aggressively shook the pills inside, hoping the rattle made me sound busy. I looked up and the guy was at the counter again, peering over the register. “Man, you going to shake that bottle all night or fill my prescription?”

  “The computer’s slow, probably the weather, but it’s processing your paperwork now.” I cupped my hand over the phone and nodded toward it. “And I’ve got this customer asking a thousand questions. Sit tight a few more minutes, okay?”

  “Whatever, man.” The guy rubbed his head with a shaky hand, held his side and walked back to the condom aisle.

  The emergency operator said, “I’m still with you, Sam. Help is maybe three minutes out.”

  “Hurry, please. He looks sick, maybe too sick to rob me—or maybe too scared—but he’s getting impatient. Just get someone here quick!”

  My conversation was interrupted by a high-pitched voice at the counter. “Hi, Sam. I must be crazy to be out on a night like this, but here I am. How are you?”

  I looked at Ms. Huffington and managed a smile. I put the phone down beside the computer, walked up to her and placed both hands on the register. I leaned over, took a deep breath and quietly said, “You shouldn’t be here. You should go home.”

  “Nonsense. You think I’ll melt with a little rain?” I watched water drip from the umbrella in her hand. She tilted her head. “Or maybe you think I’m the Wicked Witch of the West and will melt.” She smiled and fluttered her eyelids.

  I shook my head and raised an eyebrow. I nodded toward the condom aisle and said, “I’m kind of busy. You should leave now.”

  Her mouth slackened as if I’d insulted her. She looked me in the eye and frowned. “What’s wrong? Are you sick? Maybe you shouldn’t be here tonight either.”

  “I was thinking the same thing. Please leave. I’ll see you another night.”

  She started to look over her shoulder, but stopped herself. She nodded. “All right, I’m leaving now.”

  The forger glared at me. “My drug ready yet?”

  “Almost. The printer’s about to spit out the labels any second now.” I thought, I’ve got a wife, two kids and a mortgage. I can’t afford to die. I tried to remember how much life insurance I had. I visualized policies and added the numbers quickly in my head, too quickly. Not enough. It’ll never cover college, the house and leave enough for my wife to live on. I can’t die tonight.

  After what seemed like hours, the front door slowly opened and a police officer slipped in. He moved guardedly toward the pharmacy and came around the perimeter of the store from my left.

  I glanced toward the forger. He had moved to the blood pressure machine and stuck an arm into the inflatable cuff. He pressed the start button. The cuff automatically inflated around his arm.

  Looking to my left, I saw the officer, gun drawn, round the corner and head toward the prescription counter. The cop and I made eye contact. I nodded toward the blood pressure machine.

  He approached slowly and quietly. When he was about 10 feet from the forger, he yelled, “Police. Freeze!” The man spotted him and stood abruptly. But his arm was locked in the blood pressure cuff and he was pulled back into a sitting position like a magnet to metal.

  The officer moved closer to the machine just as Jeremy ran around the corner with a cane he’d picked up from a display. He slashed through air at the forger. He missed and struck the cop’s arm instead. The officer yelled and dropped his gun.

  The forger, startled and wide-eyed, fumbled with the machine’s controls to disengage the cuff. When that fai
led, he reached behind him for his gun. Just as it materialized, I saw Ms. Huffington waddle up with her umbrella held out like a sword. She poked the man in the side. He screamed in pain.

  Good aim, Ms. Huffington. He slumped back onto the machine’s seat, holding his side.

  The policeman leaped toward him, grabbed the gun, lost his balance and fell on top of him, but held on to the man’s arm and the pistol.

  I rushed to the blood pressure machine as Mary ran up holding another display cane, ready to strike. I pulled Ms. Huffington off to the side and Mary did the same with Jeremy.

  The officer tucked the gun in his belt, retrieved and holstered his own weapon, and yanked the forger to a standing position. He spun the man around, cuffed him and began the litany I recognized from television shows: “You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can and will be used against you…”

  Ms. Huffington pointed at the cuffed man and scowled, “Shame on you, young man.”

  The policeman smiled and shook his head. “Nice poke, lady. Good assist.” He handed her a blood-tipped umbrella.

  The suspect looked down at Ms. Huffington. “You old bitch.” He then looked at me. “I’m going to get you for this, man.” He turned to the officer, but nodded back toward me. “He did it. He changed the numbers. Probably does that all the time working this shift. Must have a big stash back there.”

  The cop shoved him. “Shut up, punk.” To me he said, “When I drove up, there was a car in the lot with two guys inside. I called for back up. We’ve got them detained.”

  “They didn’t try to leave when they saw your police cruiser?” I asked.

  “I don’t think they noticed. They were so high they could hardly talk, much less drive.” He pushed the kid down the aisle. “I’ll be right back to get your statements.”

  While the policeman walked the guy out of the store, I turned to Ms. Huffington and smiled. “How did you know what was going on?”

  “I knew you’d never be as mean to me as you sounded earlier. I knew something was up and told Jeremy. He gathered Mary and me at the front of the store, told us to leave.”

  Mary bit her lip and nodded toward Ms. Huffington. “When Jeremy followed the cop through the store, we got curious and followed also.”

  Ms. Huffington looked around at everyone, grinned from ear to ear and clenched her fists. “What an exciting night! Do you think I’ll have to go to court? Maybe they’ll need me to testify.”

  “Count me out of that,” Mary said. “I see enough craziness in the ER every night. Now about that asthma script, Sam?”

  “Oh, I totally forgot. I’ll call your ER doc right away.”

  I filled her son’s prescription and Mary paid her bill. She started to leave as the policeman walked back to the counter. He held out his arm. “Not so fast. You’re a witness.”

  Mary sighed and the officer pulled out a notepad to take her statement. He questioned her and jotted some notes before saying, “Okay, you can leave. We’ll call if we need anything else.”

  The officer focused on Ms. Huffington with a crooked grin. “You’re something else, ma’am. You saved my butt…Uh, excuse me…you saved my life. I’m grateful.”

  “You think I could testify at his trial?”

  “He’ll probably plead out. But even if it’s only a plea hearing, I’ll personally give you a ride to court. You won’t miss a minute of this, if that’s your pleasure.”

  “Hot damn…I mean…very good of you, officer.”

  The policeman took Jeremy’s statement before turning to me. “I’ll take that prescription now.”

  I went into the pharmacy, retrieved the forgery and handed it to the officer with some hesitation. He noticed.

  “Something wrong, Mr. Delaney?”

  Considering carefully what to say next, I explained, “I get these funny feelings sometimes. I had a feeling walking into the store tonight, like the rolling thunder was a premonition of tonight’s events. Anyway, something’s wrong with that prescription.”

  “You mean, besides it being a forgery?”

  “That’s the obvious part, but I think there’s more to it than changing a number on a piece of paper.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s highly unusual for an ER doc to write for oxycodone and let the patient walk out the door. First, it’s given for serious pain, the kind they hospitalize patients for, not to treat them and send them home. And there’s the obvious abuse potential. ER physicians don’t write for oxy unless they know the patient’s full history. That usually doesn’t happen in an ER visit.”

  “You saying the doctor’s in on this?”

  “I don’t know what I’m saying, except that I’ve never seen it before and I got a strange feeling while talking to that doc, like he was over-explaining. It’s probably nothing, but I wanted to mention it.”

  “After what that old lady did tonight, I’d believe anything,” the officer said. “I’ll look into it.”

  He shook my hand and walked out of the store and out of my life. The rest of the night was reasonably quiet with only a few other patients. I went back to my research paper and reread my conclusion. I decided that, although accurate, it was bland and not nearly as exciting as reality. It would need to be rewritten.

  I never heard back from the police, but Ms. Huffington came in one night full of stories about the day she’d spent in court as the accused agreed to a forgery charge and received a reduced sentence in exchange.

  About a week after Ms. Huffington’s day in court, I stopped getting prescriptions with that physician’s signature on the bottom. One night my curiosity got the better of me and I called the hospital’s ER to inquire if he still worked there. I was put on hold and shortly the shift’s head nurse came on the line.

  “Hi, Sam. Guess you didn’t hear. Dr. Wells was the victim of a hit and run a few days ago. Ironic, but they brought him here. His injuries were extensive.”

  I swallowed hard and wet my lips before I could ask, “Is he okay?”

  “Sadly, he didn’t make it. The police are still looking into it.”

  THE END

  THE UNDERGROUND

  by Kenneth Puddicombe

  https://kenpuddicombe.ca/