A Handy Guide to Dealing with the Carroll Ave. CVS Pharmacy
Step 1: Dig a hole 10 to 15 feet deep. Drop in any and all expectations you have for pharmacy customer service, accuracy, and basic job competence. Bury them -- these will be of no use to you here.
Step 2: Gather up all the patience you possess -- ALL OF IT. Scour the couch cushions, ask friends if they have any extra they can lend you. You will need every last bit you can muster.
Step 3 (optional): If you have access to any sedatives or tranquilizers, take 2. If you cannot take these medications because you have run out and are trying to get them refilled here, just give up. There is no hope for you, I'm afraid.
Step 4: Go to pharmacy, wait approximately 35 minutes in line behind 2 people as one staff member works the counter while 3 or 4 mosey around catatonically in the background. Finally get to counter, give and spell your full name, wait as the technician spends 4 minutes searching for your prescription, shuffling through every bin except the one that corresponds to the first 3 letters of your last name -- you know, the ones you just spelled out for her. "Q-R-G, you said?" she will ask. "Uh, no. Anderson. A-N-D," you reply, letting the question of whether anyone in human history has ever had a last name that starts with "Qrg" just hang in the air like a stale fart.
Step 5: After finally checking the correct bin, the tech will still be unable to find your prescription. She will then approach 2 other staff members, each of whom will be unable and/or unwilling to help. She will "check the computer," which will be equally evasive and unhelpful. After you've spent a grand total of 45 minutes waiting, it will become apparent that your prescription, dropped off nary 2 hours earlier (they said it would be about an hour, but you've been here before, so you knew to give it 2), has vanished, much like your will to live, which also was fully intact when you entered the pharmacy.
Step 6: Stand there dumbfounded until your eyes happen to fall upon a spot on the counter a mere 3 feet away -- the exact spot, in fact, where another technician had placed your prescription so he could read it as he ostensibly keyed in the necessary information for it to be filled when you dropped it off a mere 120 minutes prior. Lo and behold, it is still sitting there.
Step 7: Hang your head, defeated, as the technician shrugs in a cruel parody of an apology. She promises to put it in the computer right now. "It should be ready in about an hour," she intones flatly. "I think I'll just wait," you reply, as at this moment you'd rather take a long bath in sulfuric acid than have to do this dance again tonight. Wait 25 minutes until your name is called to the counter and the technician hands you your pre-packaged bottle of medicine plucked straight from the shelf. You'll want to cry, but resist this urge! It is well-established that the Work Ethic Poltergeist haunting this pharmacy feeds on misery and despair. Walk out trying to fathom how a world that has wrought such joy in the form of puppies and cotton candy also allows for the continued existence of this place, this nexus of soul-crushing incompetence and callous indifference. Peer out into the Takoma Park night, and notice that you actually feel a little lighter, but not in a good way. You sense a dull but penetrating feeling of emptiness and loss, like someone has just mugged your soul.
Step 8: Repeat every 30 days or as needed, for all eternity. read more
