(My store is situated in an upscale part of town, within a five-minute drive of two hospitals, so we receive business from people of all walks of life. A woman of older-middle-age comes in, attired in a hot pink cocktail dress, a white fur stole, and matching pink stiletto heels and purse. On a — yes, hot pink — leash, she leads an immaculately groomed Cavalier King Charles Spaniel puppy, who valiantly attempts to keep up with her pace as she marches up to the pharmacy drop-off window as intently as one would approach an enemy soldier. The look on her face as she glares steadily into my soul from across the store plainly tells me that she is itching for a fight. She ignores my typical customer-service greeting, strikes a regal pose, and slaps a prescription for an infamously addictive sort of painkiller onto the counter in front of me.)
Cruella: “Your drive-thru is not open, and I need this immediately.”
(Our drive-thru is broken and has been for months. It is an inconvenience, yes, but most people get over it and come in.)
Me: *cheerfully* “I can certainly get that for you. I am going to need to take a picture of your ID with this medication.”
Cruella: “Well, I never! Do I look like a criminal to you, little girl?”
Me: “It’s not a reflection on you, ma’am. Our policy is to get a copy of the ID with certain medications, and this happens to be one of those.”
Cruella: *scoffs* “How ridiculous.”
(She rummages in her purse theatrically, produces the ID with a flourish, and holds it up so I can see it. Instinctively, I reach to grab it and she reels back.)
Cruella: “How dare you?! I did not give you permission to touch my personal effects!”
Me: “Ma’am, it is policy that I need to attach a copy of your ID to the prescription. It is to prevent anyone from pretending to be you or a family member and stealing it to sell on the streets.”
Cruella: “What’s stopping you from stealing my ID?”
Me: “My boss and all of my coworkers watching to see if I screw up, ma’am.”
(And there are a lot of coworkers there. It is flu season, after all.)
Cruella: “FINE!”
(She throws the ID at me, which I catch and scan in the copier. She mutters for the entire three seconds that takes.)
Me: *handing her ID back to her nicely* “So, did you want to wait for this today? We have a wait time of about fifteen to twenty minutes.”
(It’s actually much longer than that on a busy day like today for patient customers, but she obviously isn’t feeling that virtue and I already want to see the back of her.)
Cruella: *suddenly screeching* “FIFTEEN TO TWENTY MINUTES?! I’VE NEVER HAD TO WAIT THAT LONG FOR ANYTHING IN MY LIFE!”
Me: *biting back a sassy remark along the lines of, “Yeah, I can tell.”* “I apologize, ma’am, but that is the standard wait time.”
Cruella: “THIS IS RIDICULOUS! I NEED THIS IMMEDIATELY! I WOULDN’T HAVE TO WAIT THAT LONG IF YOU LAZY LITTLE PRINCESSES WOULD JUST FIX THE DRIVE-THRU! I’M NOT EVEN WELL ENOUGH TO BE ON MY FEET THIS LONG! GET ME YOUR MANAGER! THIS IS THE MOST BADLY-RUN PHARMACY I HAVE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE!”
(My manager, who has been listening from his station on the other side of the drop-off window and gauging how well the newbie can handle this lady, heaves a sigh, rolls his eyes, and answers the siren call of retail. She continues to scream at him for a good five minutes, reiterating everything she has just said as if he hadn’t just heard the whole d*** thing, and receiving the same answer I gave. Meanwhile, I type up the prescription, label it as high priority, and look back at the tech who is on pill counting duty to warn her to get this lady’s painkiller first.)
Cruella: *to my manager* “YOU’RE JUST AS USELESS AS SHE IS! WHERE’S YOUR BOSS? I’M MAKING A COMPLAINT!”
(My manager casually picks up the intercom and calls the store manager.)
Manager: “Please wait right there for them to arrive, as they are busy up front and need to break away.”
(The lady waits roughly fifteen seconds and then sets off to hunt down the store manager herself, yanking on her little dog’s leash so hard that he lets out a pained yap. Over the next ten minutes, I watch as this woman stalks up and down the pharmaceutical section aisles, muttering darkly to herself:)
Cruella: “My doctor said I’m not even supposed to get out of the car!”
(When we can’t see her, we can still mark her progress, as periodically she jerks her poor puppy’s leash and we hear it yelp in pain again. Over that amount of time, not one, but two upper-level managers appear in the pharmacy, both of them wearing equally confused expressions as this woman leads them in a merry chase throughout the store. Meanwhile, we finish the prescription with time to spare and wait for her to come back. Finally, the general manager wrangles Cruella and brings her back up to our waiting room. Cruella has apparently decided to treat this manager as a confidante, and she is “weeping” — suspiciously without tears — on this woman’s shoulder as they approach. The prescription is ready, and she takes ten minutes to check out, sniffling pathetically without once smudging her perfect mascara. The tech checking her out says nothing but:)
Tech: “Have a nice day.”
(And then, as swiftly as she appeared, Cruella DePink flounces away, never to be seen again.)
General Manager: *to my manager* “Phew. Thanks for dealing with her! I don’t know how you guys handle people like her!”
Manager: “Alcohol. And sarcasm. Sorry to put you through that.”
(Even when our drive-thru was finally fixed, that woman never returned. Here’s hoping that she hasn’t turned her dog into a coat yet.)
