alcohol is my fuel

So it’s early afternoon on Sunday and I’m waiting to pick up my prescription at the Duane Reade on 1st Ave. b/w 57th and 58th. This Banker/Frat Guy type walks up to the counter wearing gym shorts, a sweatshirt, a knit cap and black leather shoes with white ankle socks, talking loudly into his RAZR cellphone:

“Dude! How wasted were you? Were we really there ’til 4AM!? Dude! That’s insane!!”

The pharmacist, an attractive young Asian lady in her twenties (which isn’t really relevant), asks if he needs help.

“Yeah, I’m here to pick something up.”

“Last name?”

He says his last name as she goes to the computer and then resumes his conversation.

“Dude! I know! Alcohol is my fuel, man. You just fill me up with that stuff and I just go!!”

“First name?” the pharmacist says, but Frat Boy is talking too much to hear her.  I look over at him:

Dude – First. Name.”

He gives his first name and keeps talking, “Huh? No, I gotta get in touch with that girl, you know, she gave me her number ….”

The pharmacist starts to ask “Which medicine do you…”

“Nah,” says Frat Boy, “It’s nothing I’ve ever got a prescription for.  Plan B.”

The pharmacist doesn’t even blink, goes to get the Plan B and hands it to him. She rings him up while he continues to shout into his cell phone, “Dude, I know. It was awesome. Yeah we’ll have to party there again. That was fuckin’ insane, bro! Huh? Oh let me see if I have some change…”

He pays for the drugs, still talking into his phone as the pharmacists asks him, “Do you have any questions about Plan B?”

“No,” he says as he takes the bag with the box of pills, keeps shouting into his phone, turns around and walks away.

His mother must be so proud.

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