In the Land of Suck

Nothing saps my will to live like shopping at Duane Reade.  Problematically, it is New York's most ubiquitous drug store.  Every once in a while, you'll come across a Rite Aid or a CVS or an errant Walgreen's; but for the most part, Manhattanites in search of shampoo and dental floss are condemned to wander the aisles of the most poorly planned retail spaces on the planet, possibly until the end of time.  You're never certain that you will, in fact, emerge from the fluorescent-lit hell once you've passed through the anti-theft devices and been given the once-over by the security guard stationed by the door. 

While I don't demand utter conformity among chain stores, I expect some hint of coherence.  Duane Reade stores are as far from the Gap and Wal-Mart models of organizational branding as you can get -- they don't even carry the same thing from store to store, so you'll stop off at the one near work and hunt for an hour for the same hair gel you always get at the one near home, only to walk out empty-handed.  Some branches lock up the razor blades and Monistat behind the counter, some don't.  (And why would they?  Are we concerned about hijackers taking over pharmacies with Mach III cartridges or women running away with fifty boxes of yeast infection cream in their pocketbooks?)  It is a maddening non-system.  And this is true no matter which store you're in; the Duane Reade on Madison Avenue is no better than  one in a more "transitional" area.

To add to the misery of the overall experience, Duane Reade seems to make a point of hiring the most apathetic, energy-sucking people in the world.  I get that their job stinks, and no doubt they're grossly underpaid; but come on.  Not satisfied with mere incompetence, these employees are notorious for their mumbling delivery, general cluelessness and, at times, downright hostility. 

One particularly memorable time, I stood at the pharmacy counter for close to fifteen minutes before the cashier, who was two feet away from me and had looked me straight in the eye as I presented myself at the register, would deign to take a break from her phone conversation and ask what I wanted.  Then, while continuing to talk on the phone, she eeeeeeeeeever-so-sloooooooooowly perused the prescription bin, missing half of the packets in her half-hearted search.  With the phone still attached to her ear, she muttered in my general direction something to the effect that it wasn't there.  I asked her to keep looking.  We went through three repetitions of this before she finally found my stuff, and then I had to endure more of her gripping conversation ("Why you say that? ...  What he say?! ... Oh, giiiiiirl...") while she rung up the sale with a sluggishness that suggested that her body had suddenly become subject to gravity at twenty times its usual force.  By the time I got out of there, a line had formed behind me that reached to the door fifty feet away, and I was ready to have a stroke.  Or stab someone.   

That's pretty much how I feel every time I set foot in a Duane Reade.  It never fails; every time I need to visit the pharmacy, there is some ancient  woman in front of me asking the same question about her medication fifty thousand times, or, even if I've called in my refill hours beforehand, they've had to order it from another store and it hasn't yet arrived. 

I try to do as much shopping as I can on Drugstore.com (and not just because they give me something free with my order, although that certainly helps -- although, most recently, I received a free wasabi and green tea-scented cream that's supposed to mask the scent of onions or garlic on your hands...but I can't say that I would rather have my hands smell like wasabi than the alternatives) (where was I?  sorry); unfortunately, though, I still have to get my prescriptions and occasionally I need to buy toilet paper, so my patronage of this life-sucking chain must continue. 

If you never hear from me again, you'll know that the store won and that my lifeless body is crumpled somewhere within the cramped aisles of my neighborhood Duane Reade, probably in the vicinity of the saline solution.  As if you'll be able to find it.   

Comments

[Laura B.]

I feel your pain!! I have a Duane Reade right next door to my apartment building, but I pretty much order everything that isn't an emergency from drugstore.come to avoid setting foot in there. The guy at the pharmacy is downright hostile, and I hate him.

[Martha]

Oh, you hit the nail on the head with that one. Hell itself can't be any worse than Duane Reade. CVS, on the other hand, is like paradise on Earth.

[Stinkypaw]

I guess I should be happy we don't have that chain over here... Next time I'm in NY I'll nake sure to drop in - I just have to see this "fluorescent-lit hell" you described so well... but I'll make sure to stay away from "the most apathetic, energy-sucking people in the world" - they sound like soooo much fun!

[Pioneer Woman]

Oh, man. I feel EXACTLY the same way every time I set foot in Wal Mart, which I suspect you don't have in NYC. I hate Wal Mart. And just when my cart is only half-full, I start feeling panicky at the prospect of having to finish filling my cart, then having to wait in a hot, sweaty line with hot, sweaty other people waiting in line behind me.
I've sworn it off.

[lawyerish]

Laura - This is truly every New Yorker's plight.

Martha - There was a CVS near our old apartment and I went out of my way to go there instead of to one of the three DRs that were closer to us.

Stinkypaw - A moment in any Duane Reade store will make you appreciate wherever you shop near home.

Ree - Nope, no Wal-Mart in NYC, although we do have a couple of KMarts. When I go home to visit my parents, I occasionally have to endure a Wal-Mart visit, and it is just the worst.