Oct 26
OK, OK, I go to CVS Pharmacy a lot. A lot. I used to get medication for my father, my mother, and me. Everyone in that pharmacy knows me; some of them remember my full name, and some even remember my birthdate.
Isn’t that funky, a random tech at CVS knows my birthday? Some of my friends don’t remember my birthday.
The only thing that might know more about me is Facebook’s algorithm. It has currently reached the point of reading my soul.
There’s this one dude who works at CVS who’s in his thirties. He’s a trip. We have actually become friends. He’ll be like, “Hey, Nina, what’s up?”
One time, I went in and got three vaccines in one day, and the place was a zoo. The dude I mentioned, and I started chatting.
“Why is it so busy in here?” I asked and looked around at the people waiting in line.
“I don’t know. It’s been like this all day,” he said and smiled. It occurred to me how young he was, and I was somehow happy about that.
“A lot of people OD’ing on antibiotics?” I asked.
“Looks like you’re OD’ing on vaccines. Three in one day? That’s brave.”
“Whatever. If I can’t wake up tomorrow morning, I’ll be calling here asking for you,” I said and laughed.
“It wasn’t my idea. What vaccines are you getting?”
“Flu, COVID, shingles.”
“Shingles?” He looked perplexed.
“I’m an old woman,” I sighed.
He laughed. He knows my birthday; he doesn’t know the year. They only ask for the month and day.
He and his cohorts also know all the psychotropic drugs I take, which used to bother me, but I just don’t care anymore.
When I was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder in New York City, I took the subway to a different part of the city so the local pharmacist wouldn’t know what I was taking. Wow, was I a different person back then!
Anyway, my friend jokes that going to CVS so often is like going to Mecca to perform Hajj. She says that every time she calls me, I’m on my way to Mecca. Is that an offensive joke?
I went into the non-pharmacy part of CVS the other day, and the woman working at the cash register was South Indian. She smiled at me and said, “It’s nice to see you; it’s been a while.”
“I’ve been going through the drive-thru,” I said. “I just needed stamps.” My mom still uses checks and snail mail. “How are you?” I asked her.
“I’m not feeling well,” she said.
“Why don’t you go home?” I asked. She had a very sweet face.
“I work part-time, and they won’t let me take time off.”
“That’s not right,” I said.
I looked to my right, and a Middle Eastern woman was waiting for a passport photo. She had a really straight nose. I wish my nose was straighter. It’s kind of hooked.
Do I want to look more white? What’s wrong with me?
I don’t remember how this came up, but I said to the Indian woman, “I am Indian.”
“No, you are not,” she said with a sly smile.
“You couldn’t tell?” I asked.
“The way you talk and the way you look, I thought you were American.”
“You mean you thought I was white?”
“Yes.” She turned around, and the man who worked with her was also South Indian. “Can you tell she’s Indian?”
“No, I wouldn’t have guessed,” he said as he looked for my stamps.
“What?” What’s going on? I literally just came from this spiritual lecture given by a bunch of white people, and they looked excited that I was there because they were talking about Hinduism and Buddhism. I announced that I’m Indian, and they were like, “Yeah, we know.” What is happening?
Photo courtesy of Hariharan M E via Scopio
Back at CVS, the Middle Eastern woman waiting to get her passport picture was listening to our conversation.
“I didn’t think you were Indian; I was thinking maybe Middle Eastern or Mexican.”
“I get that all the time, but I have never been called white in my entire life,” I said. I noticed a white guy standing behind me. Was he listening?
“I speak Hindi,” I told the woman at the register.
“Really?” She smiled.
“Malik ko batao ki tu beemar hai aur time off lena hai..” Tell your boss you are sick and you need to take time off.
“Teek hai, I like your Hindi.” She looked over at me.
“You are looking very fresh today; did you take a head bath?”
“No, I didn’t wash my hair today,” I said.
I looked at her face again. She was pretty.
“You look very fresh,” she repeated.
“Thank you,” I said and smiled at her.
I’m going to take looking fresh as a compliment.
I mentioned that I enjoy the fact that no one can tell where I come from. And I honestly do.
But in this instance, the Indians didn’t recognize me, but the white people did.
That’s kind of funny, am I right?
nina
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