How to Get Free Drugs at CVS
Complaint
Judith G.
Country: United States
Surfside pharmacy employees practice a singular and very original form of philanthropy. The story that Michel Moore forgot in Sicko.
I got my medication for free, but I ended up taking an incomplete dose, late, with a busted lip, graciously accompanied by prostitutes, drug addicts, geriatric alcoholics and the mentally ill – in prison. Shall we take it from beginning?
I walked into the pharmacy and said hello, and I asked Bolívar, the assistant, for my pills. She typed something into the computer and told me that my refill had expired. Judging by the way she brushed off my introductory hello, and her tone of voice, it was plain that she either lacked the most basic customer service skills or she really was in a bad mood. I asked if she would talk to my doctor, who had personally answered my call right away. With an expression bordering on repugnance, Bolívar looked at my cell phone and announced that that was the pharmacist's job.
I asked where he or she might be. A man's shout identifying itself as the person in question came from a tiny cubicle. The man grabbed my phone from out of my hand. The attitudes of both employees had struck me speechless. I've been shopping at CVS pharmacies for 20 years –that's since they were called Eckers– but, honestly, this Surfside, Miami Beach store was something new to me.
I muttered to myself that perhaps they were deaf. The pharmacist, Mr. Hernández, had no hearing problem; he cut off the call with my doctor, and shouting again, he said that he wasn't going to sell me anything. He didn't like the way I was looking at him either.
What? What?!
My health is delicate. I need to take these prescriptions daily for my digestion, for the rest of my life. I called 911 for help; they conveyed that the problem was not an emergency. It was then that I lost control. I was now the livid one, and I demanded service.
A pair of buffed out cops appeared. The way they walked in indicated they weren't there to clear things up. Quite the contrary. They had come to humiliate me even more by defending the candies that I had knocked to the floor in my show of disgust.
The presence of the repressive force caused Bolívar and Hernández to metamorphose. They suddenly began to act how they should have from the start, politely. The pharmacist said that he would give me the medication. It was too late, the everyday me had been pushed over the edge.
The bodybuilders cum policemen ordered me out of the store, and I refused. They took me by the arms and pushed me down, in the process busting my lip on the floor, and then handcuffed me.
I cried that this was an abuse; I demanded a proper report of the events be taken. The officers waited until I was given the medication. The pharmacist –Oh, Mother of Mary, so diligent and philanthropic!– said of course I wouldn't have to pay a dime.
The paramedics arrived to attend to the busted lip the officers had given me. I was then loaded up into the patrol car and taken to jail, where I fainted several times and was denied my medicine and medical assistance, but survived to tell the tale.
I learned first hand that my experience was nothing compared to how two lady cops dragged an old lady in the middle of an epileptic seizure by the hair, but I leave that story for another time.
The next day, they took me to appear before a judge, who immediately let me go. I was "free." They returned my wallet. Ten dollars were missing. I was as shocked as surely you are now: robbed by the police! I felt lucky – one prostitute was missing her money, jewelry and cigarettes. We were both especially bummed about the cigarettes.
The police report's record of events started after the candy incident. The initial verbal aggressions and the refusal of the employees to help me aren't mentioned. There is said to be a video, which I can have access to if I hire a lawyer; provided said video has audio, has not been edited, and covers all possible angles to establish causes, consequences and responsibility for the events.
It's been more than a month now, with me trying to recover physically and emotionally. I've also used the time to reflect on all the Bolívars and Hernández's working at CVS pharmacies and other places.
These employees are poorly trained and paid even worse. They never get to sit; they have problems eating and sleeping because they work such irregular shifts. They are totally alienated individuals. For these poor souls, the American dream has long since turned into a nightmare they can't wake up from. They hate their lives, and consequently they are incapable of empathy with other human beings.
They derive pleasure from provoking and hurting people, especially those who, like me, have a triple minority condition: woman, Latina, handicapped. They know well that they are protected by the lackeys who serve the interests of big business: the officers of our brutal police departments. In the words of Huxley:
The individual will be repressed and oppressed, freedom and initiative will be abolished; only at this highest of prices may humankind survive.
Logically, I switched pharmacies. There's not much I can do: send these lines to different places, write a blog, a web page, things like that. All talk and no trousers. This microscopic experience appears to confirm the idea that in small and great acts, the human race has already failed.
I got my medication for free, but I ended up taking an incomplete dose, late, with a busted lip, graciously accompanied by prostitutes, drug addicts, geriatric alcoholics and the mentally ill – in prison. Shall we take it from beginning?
I walked into the pharmacy and said hello, and I asked Bolívar, the assistant, for my pills. She typed something into the computer and told me that my refill had expired. Judging by the way she brushed off my introductory hello, and her tone of voice, it was plain that she either lacked the most basic customer service skills or she really was in a bad mood. I asked if she would talk to my doctor, who had personally answered my call right away. With an expression bordering on repugnance, Bolívar looked at my cell phone and announced that that was the pharmacist's job.
I asked where he or she might be. A man's shout identifying itself as the person in question came from a tiny cubicle. The man grabbed my phone from out of my hand. The attitudes of both employees had struck me speechless. I've been shopping at CVS pharmacies for 20 years –that's since they were called Eckers– but, honestly, this Surfside, Miami Beach store was something new to me.
I muttered to myself that perhaps they were deaf. The pharmacist, Mr. Hernández, had no hearing problem; he cut off the call with my doctor, and shouting again, he said that he wasn't going to sell me anything. He didn't like the way I was looking at him either.
What? What?!
My health is delicate. I need to take these prescriptions daily for my digestion, for the rest of my life. I called 911 for help; they conveyed that the problem was not an emergency. It was then that I lost control. I was now the livid one, and I demanded service.
A pair of buffed out cops appeared. The way they walked in indicated they weren't there to clear things up. Quite the contrary. They had come to humiliate me even more by defending the candies that I had knocked to the floor in my show of disgust.
The presence of the repressive force caused Bolívar and Hernández to metamorphose. They suddenly began to act how they should have from the start, politely. The pharmacist said that he would give me the medication. It was too late, the everyday me had been pushed over the edge.
The bodybuilders cum policemen ordered me out of the store, and I refused. They took me by the arms and pushed me down, in the process busting my lip on the floor, and then handcuffed me.
I cried that this was an abuse; I demanded a proper report of the events be taken. The officers waited until I was given the medication. The pharmacist –Oh, Mother of Mary, so diligent and philanthropic!– said of course I wouldn't have to pay a dime.
The paramedics arrived to attend to the busted lip the officers had given me. I was then loaded up into the patrol car and taken to jail, where I fainted several times and was denied my medicine and medical assistance, but survived to tell the tale.
I learned first hand that my experience was nothing compared to how two lady cops dragged an old lady in the middle of an epileptic seizure by the hair, but I leave that story for another time.
The next day, they took me to appear before a judge, who immediately let me go. I was "free." They returned my wallet. Ten dollars were missing. I was as shocked as surely you are now: robbed by the police! I felt lucky – one prostitute was missing her money, jewelry and cigarettes. We were both especially bummed about the cigarettes.
The police report's record of events started after the candy incident. The initial verbal aggressions and the refusal of the employees to help me aren't mentioned. There is said to be a video, which I can have access to if I hire a lawyer; provided said video has audio, has not been edited, and covers all possible angles to establish causes, consequences and responsibility for the events.
It's been more than a month now, with me trying to recover physically and emotionally. I've also used the time to reflect on all the Bolívars and Hernández's working at CVS pharmacies and other places.
These employees are poorly trained and paid even worse. They never get to sit; they have problems eating and sleeping because they work such irregular shifts. They are totally alienated individuals. For these poor souls, the American dream has long since turned into a nightmare they can't wake up from. They hate their lives, and consequently they are incapable of empathy with other human beings.
They derive pleasure from provoking and hurting people, especially those who, like me, have a triple minority condition: woman, Latina, handicapped. They know well that they are protected by the lackeys who serve the interests of big business: the officers of our brutal police departments. In the words of Huxley:
The individual will be repressed and oppressed, freedom and initiative will be abolished; only at this highest of prices may humankind survive.
Logically, I switched pharmacies. There's not much I can do: send these lines to different places, write a blog, a web page, things like that. All talk and no trousers. This microscopic experience appears to confirm the idea that in small and great acts, the human race has already failed.
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