Thirteen days ago, my phone pinged: “Your Rx is now available for pick up.” I was 17 minutes into my daughter’s field hockey game; I was dreaming of the glass of sparkling rosé (or three) I was going to pour when I got home. The second time the impatient pharmacy messaged? I was cleaning cat vomit off my son’s bedsheets. I can’t even talk about the third time—like, legally I can’t.
Today, the bitchy electronic prodding system declares: “Today is the last day your Rx will be available for pick up.” So, even though I have already worked a full day and am dangerously close to biting my spouse’s head off for ignoring my last 93 texts, I must go to the pharmacy.
Circle One: Limbo
I walk through the door and am immediately Rickrolled. Worse, the line is 22 people deep, most over 85 years old and accompanied by walkers with tennis ball feet.
Circle Two: For the Lustful
Ten minutes in: Peter Cetera croons about the Glory (hole) of Love. I peep over the shoulder of the man in front of me engrossed in his Tinder app. The dick pics make me wonder if he’s waiting for Viagra or a strong antibiotic.
Circle Three: For the Gluttonous
Fifteen minutes in: Carly Simon questions my vanity. An elderly woman leans heavily on a look-alike companion. They are clearly the octogenarian Shining twins. The first sister, after looking around surreptitiously, sneaks a liver-spotted hand into a preemptive holiday candy bin. I think: What kind of sick bastard created realistic chocolate eggs with look-alike baby chick slime?
Circle Four: For the Greedy
Twenty-five minutes in, I begin to question my sanity. I want to retort: No, Christopher Cross; falling in love is not the best I can do. I am an independent woman! Or, I would be if I didn’t have so many damn student loans. I, also, generally like everyday luxuries like Door Dash, a working plumbing system, those expensive fiber gummies that make me regular, Botox, and a really good orthopedic pillow.
Circle Five: For the Wrathful
Thirty-seven minutes in, I have counted 72 crunchy coughs from within a six-foot radius That’s almost two Covid nightmares per minute, higher, even, than an average preschool class. I, also, become aware of wet drops tapping my forehead; thematically, at least, the drops match Toto’s rain in “Africa” currently playing. A puddle grows near my feet. I fight the urge to chuck the nearby containers of hemorrhoid wipes at the customers in front of me.
Circle Six: For the Heretics
The forty-minute mark: The Bangles surely did not believe in an eternal flame. I see the COVID testing area. It is quietly manned by a pharmacist in plain clothes with a mysteriously blank nametag. He whispers to his middle-aged patient that she should consider taking five days off work and wearing a mask in public. The patient puts her hands over her ears and stomps off, her Karen haircut bobbing on one asymmetric side.
Circle Seven: For the Violent Offenders
I am now forty-seven minutes into this errand; the overhead speakers croon, “It’s another tequila sunrise.” Yes, as soon as I can possibly get home or to a bar with happy hour deals. I search Google for a way to email the onerous robot who forced me to come here today. I silently assess the other customers in line for my odds in hand-to-hand combat.
Circle Eight: Containing the Astrologers
Sixty-two minutes in. I am having a ‘personal summer’; I begin to sweat. The Shining twins are beet-red in their faces, too. I throw my sweater on the ground. I hum along to “What a Fool Believes.” I grab a celebrity gossip magazine with a pseudo-porn cover and search for my daily horoscope. My stars say: Perhaps you should have stayed in bed today. I say, “No shit,” out loud.
Circle Nine: Lucifer
Ninety-three minutes later, I have to pee. The decision is simple: stay and wait or leave and dodge a UTI. I watch as the cashier—who has been cursing at her Angry Birds game for at least ten minutes—calls to the manager behind her. She says, “I’m taking my break, now.” A vicious electronic voice—surely kin to the asshole texting robot—states, “The store will be closing in five minutes.” The manager hangs up her misleading white coat. I cannot retrieve my medication or my twelve-mile-long receipt; like Lucifer, I now have three heads, all screaming.
