The Shopper's Center (standard:other, 9932 words)
Author: Rick Pyzyna	Added: Jan 07 2008	Views/Reads: 3027/2164	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A behind the scenes look at your friendly neighborhood retail drug store

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


Freddie taps Linda on the shoulder.  "Lu, did you see where my customer
went?" 

"Which one?" 

"The redhead." 

"Her?"  She left.  Said she changed her mind." 

Freddie shakes his head.  "Stupid customers .   .   ."  Freddie bites
his lip to avoid further heresy.  "Oh, guess what," he tells Linda 
before returning to the Southern Comfort, "I think Mr.  Fuchs is gonna 
leave us some pizza." 

Freddie in Love 

Freddie is working with Linda again this evening.  Freddie's in love
with Linda.  He's also in love with Carol, Noreen, Cindy and Kathy (but 
not Sarah, Sandy, Debbie or Jane.  Freddie is fussy about which 
cashiers he falls in love with). He loves Linda the most. 

Linda does not love Freddie.  She has been going with Keith for two
years. Freddie who has seen Keith once, thinks Keith is gangly, 
adenoidal and infantile. Freddie is irrationally jealous of Keith.  
Linda wants Freddie to be her buddy.  She's told him this several 
times.  Freddie feels like gagging every time she does.  Hesmiles 
nervously instead. 

Liquor is slow tonight.  Freddie has lots of time to stare at Linda
while she's ringing.  She's so beautiful.  Several times Freddie falls 
into daydreams imagining how wonderful it would be to lean over and 
kiss Linda on the cheek or on the neck or simply caress her hand. 

"Freddie, hon." 

"Huh?"  Linda's voice takes him out of one such daydream. 

"Could you bag for me 'til I get this line down?" 

"Sure thing, toots." 

It takes three minutes for the two of them to eliminate the line.  Once
they both reach at the same time for a lady's glycerin suppositories 
and their hands touch accidentally.   The same thing happens over 
Metamucil and King Oscar Sardines.  Occasionally, Freddie's arm and 
shoulder brush against Linda's back.  This contact makes Freddie sad.  
These are the only times he can touch Linda with impunity. 

When the last customer is gone, Linda faces Freddie.  Their eyes lock. 
They smile at each other. 

"Thanks for helping," Linda says. 

Freddie says nothing.  They continue to smile and stare.  Freddie wants
to grab Linda and hold her tight.  He probably should try.  He pats 
Linda on the arm. "Anytime, bay-BEE." 

"Anytime," Freddie repeats to himself as he returns to liquor. 
"Sometime,"  he thinks, lying hopefully to himself. 

*              *              *              * Attention!  Attention,
Walgreen's Shoppers!  For your convenience our store has added milk.  
Our milk center is located in the front of the store opposite the check 
out counters.  As always, Walgreens is pledged to quality merchandise 
and prompt service.  And with our milk center we feel we offer the 
finest and the freshest dairy products in the entire area.  Please 
visit our milk center today.  Get acquainted with farmer Hiram Hagin, 
his brother Alvin, his wife Tilly, his daughter Tess, little Hiram,Jr.  
and their cows, Midnite, Daisy, and Brownsie.  Free eight ounce plastic 
milk tumblers to the first twenty-five customers. 

*              *              *              * 

Meet the Manager 

Mr.  Lipsitz is Walgreen's manager.  He is a humorless man with a
personality that is three fifths Walgreen's Training Manuals, two 
fifths Principals and Practices of Marketing I, II and III.  The 
present store is Mr.  Lipsitz' third in five years.  Each succeeding 
store has been bigger than the last, an indication that Mr. Lipsitz' 
corporate star is on the ascent.   And well it should be.  For Mr.  
Lipsitz is the ideal Walgreen's Man, dedicated and hard working.  
Twelve to fifteen hour days are Mr.  Lipsitz' norm.  Monday through 
Saturday he arrives at 6 a.m., three hours before the store opens.  Mr. 
 Lipsitz spends those three hours checking the previous day's register 
tapes and receipts, inspecting the aisles for improperly set displays 
or messy shelves, and making mental notes of merchandise to be ordered. 
 Three hours of tedious busy work, busy work most managers would handle 
during regular store hours.  Mr.  Lipsitz gets it out of the way early. 
 He gets it out of the way so that once those doors open he is free to 
deal exclusively with the single most pressing concern in retailing: 
how to sell the most at the highest profit in the least possible time. 

Mr.  Lipsitz wants his store to be number one, number one in sales
volume, net profit, omparative profit, in everything.  Nothing is too 
insignificant.  Even a minor Walgreen's promotional contest, featuring 
tawdry spoon rings, is an opportunity for his store to hit the top.   
Mr.  Lipsitz is obsessed with winning, and he tries often to pass this 
obsession on to his employees.  Thirty second pep talks on the 
principles of good salesmanship are part of the daily ritual no one 
escapes.Signs exhorting his troops to prevent losses, to be neat, 
courteous, affable and positive with customers and, mostly, to sell, 
sell, sell fill the walls in the office, the lunch room and the 
employee locker rooms.  "Winning," says Mr.  Lipsitz often, "is a total 
team effort.  Everyone from manager on down to stock boy has to 
contribute." 

Of course, there is a reason for Mr.  Lipsitz' obsession with coming in
first. In a company as vast as Walgreens, being first means being 
noticed.  Being noticed means being promoted and being promoted is the 
quintessential fact of a managerial career.  Move up or move out.  Oh, 
there are managers here and there who stay put for years, satisfied 
with their niche.  Mr.  Lipsitz views these men with disdain.  He wants 
none of their stolid security.  Mr.  Lipsitz wants to climb. Someday he 
hopes to manage the biggest, the best store in whole Walgreens' cosmos. 
 After that?  He isn't sure.  District manager?  Maybe.  Certainly, 
some position where he can hobnob with the corporate wheels, where he 
might become a wheel himself.  For want Mr.  Lipsitz really wants is to 
see his picture regularly in Walgreens World. 

Where Have You Gone Marjorie Main? 

Going on a break, Freddie is startled by a withered hand suddenly
clutching his shoulder.  Nothing to be afraid of.  The hand belongs to 
a doddering old crone, who vaguely resembles an emaciated Ma Kettle. 

"Sir, could you help me please?" pleads Ma in a voice as shaky as she
is. 

"Whatta ya need?" barks Freddie impolitely.  Ma's age and condition do
not entitle her to any deference.  She's cutting into his already too 
short break time. 

"I came here looking for a sale item.  I saw it in today's paper," Ma
says, then stops. 

Freddie waits for the rest, his eyes doing a quick 180 in search of
Percy Kilbride.  Percy never comes; and neither does the rest.  Ma 
stares mutely at Freddie. 

"What sale item?"  Freddie finally asks. 

"I don't know," says Ma.  "I was hoping you could help me with that. 
What did I come here to buy?" 

"Raisins," replies Freddie. 

"Raisins?"  Ma seems unsure. 

"Yea, raisins.  The eight ounce box is on sale for forty-nine cents." 

"Ma smiles.  "Yes.  Raisins.  Thank you, young man.  Could you tell me
where I can find the raisins." 

"Aisle 8-A." 

Ma heads in that direction.  When she is far enough away, Freddie calls
out, "Ma, I mean ma'am .   .   .  ma'am." 

Ma looks back. 

"I believe we're sold out of the raisins.   There was a big crop failure
in California.  Frost.  So we didn't get the supply we ordered.  You'll 
have to get a raincheck at the check out counter." 

Ma smiles again.  She understands.  Those things happen. Freddie smiles
back.  They're not giving rainchecks on the raisins. 

*              *              *              * Attention!  Attention! 
Walgreens' Shoppers!   A thirty minute special!  For the next thirty 
minutes only, we are offering Roach Motel Managerships at one-half the 
original price.  Yearning to be your own boss?   Here's your chance to 
own and operate a quality roach motel at an incredible savings.  Choose 
from a wide selction of styles and sizes.  Many choice locations 
available too.  But ya better hurry. You're not likely to see this low, 
low price ever again.  Get in on the ground floor of this small, but 
growing, enterprise.  Roach Motel Mangerships, aisle 14-B. One half off 
'til 8 p.m. 

*              *              *              * 

And Now the Assistants 

Walgreens has two assistant managers: Mr.  Fuchs and Mr.  Hailey.  Mr.
Fuchs is a dour young man in his late twenties whose stiff-legged gait, 
the remnant of a childhood bone disease, is a target of frequent 
in-store mimicry.  Mr.  Fuchs is curt with the help and snippy with 
customers, an accredited pompous ass. Nobody knows why Mr.  Fuchs works 
at Walgreens.  Nobody knows why he bothers to work at all.  Mr.  Fuchs 
is wealthy.  How wealthy is a matter of conjecture.  But it is known 
that Mr.  Fuchs owns three Cadillacs and a luxury van, that he has at 
his disposal the family yacht, private jet, summer homes (one here, one 
abroad) and a chauffeur.  It is also known that on his twenty-first 
birthday, Mr. Fuchs received two small strip malls from his father, a 
noted real estate baron and slumlord.  Mr.  Fuchs has since purchased a 
third. 

Mr.  Lipsitz does not like Mr.  Fuchs or Mr.  Fuchs' money, especially
his money.  "Fuchs has no drive, no motivation," Mr.  Lipsitz has been 
overheard saying.   "But then why should he?  Someone with his poke 
doesn't have to bust his ass for Walgreens."  Privately this worries 
Mr.  Lipsitz considerably.  He's afraid Mr.  Fuchs' wealth will somehow 
cause his own career to sputter.  Mr.  Lipsitz is unwilling to take 
that chance.  He will fire Mr.  Fuchs at the first opportunity. 

Mr.  Hailey is a big, beefy man with personal problems.  His wife of
eighteen years is slowly going crazy and has recently left him, taking 
their two kids with her.  Mr.  Hailey has responded by drinking more 
and eating less.  Away from Walgreens, Mr.  Hailey can be found either 
drowning his sorrows in some neighborhood dive or accumulating whores, 
moving violations and hangover time in no particular order of 
preference. 

Mr.  Hailey has been as assistant manager for fifteen years (the last
nine at Lipsitz' store   eight more than Lipsitz himself).  He has no 
desire to be a manager. "Could have been one lots of times," he boasts 
when asked.  "Why bother?  Too many headaches, not enough money."   
Money is important to Mr.  Hailey.  "It buys pleasure," he says.  Mr.  
Hailey despises Mr.  Fuchs because he thinks that Fuchs doesn't know 
how to use his money.  "You wouldn't catch me working like Fuchs," 
Hailey announces to anyone who will listen including Mr.  Fuchs.  "Give 
me his money, and it would be liquor and women twenty-four hours a day. 
 With a little high stakes poker on the side."  Money, booze and women 
form Hailey's holy trinity. 

Mr.  Hailey is loud, often overbearing and crude.  In his good moods,
he's a back slapper and an ass pincher.  Sexual innuendo dominates his 
conversation, especially with the cashiers.  The bad moods far 
outnumber the good though.  Then Hailey becomes a sullen bully, riding 
the hirelings unmercifully as long as they let them.  Usually a gruff 
"fuck off" is enough to get Hailey off someone's back. 

Mr.  Hailey and Mr.  Lipsitz have an uneasy truce.  So far Hailey's
boozing and abrasive personality have had no ill effects.  Mr.  Hailey 
does his job well.  Still Mr.  Lipsitz does not trust him.  He'd 
probably fire Mr.  Hailey too if he could be certain that firing two 
assistants would not be a black eye on his own record.  Mr. Hailey, for 
his part, does not respect Mr.  Lipsitz.  He abides him.  "Lipsitz is 
the boss" is Hailey's only comment.  Actually that is the essence of 
Hailey's survival formula, adaptability.  Whatever the present boss 
says is gospel.  It's a formula that has served Hailey well through 
fifteen years and a dozen bosses.  Hailey never rocks the boat. 

Munch a Bunch 

Feeding time for the Muncher, an eight foot tall green machine with an
insatiable appetite for cardboard boxes   any size, any shape.  Fill 
the Muncher's mouth with boxes.  Fifteen seconds and several thousand 
pounds of pressure later, only a 4x5 cardboard pancake remains.  Fill 
it enough times   the Muncher excretes a huge cardboard bale. 

This evening's course is "liquor boxes au jous".  As Freddie hand feed
the mechanical marvel its supper, a single idea dominates his thoughts. 
 Wouldn't it be wonderful, Freddie muses, to change the Muncher's diet. 
Just once.  Wouldn't it be wonderful to fee the Muncher Keith. 

Don't Mess with Fuchs. 

The young boy swings his head quickly from left to right.  Still nobody
watching so he slips two candy bars in his coat pocket.  The boy inches 
toward the exit.  At the head of the aisle he turns the corner.  Mr.  
Fuchs.  The boy tries to twist past him.  Mr.  Fuchs grabs the boy's 
arm. 

"Forget something, sonny?" Mr.  Fuchs snarls. 

"Noooo!   Leggo!  You're hurtin' me!" 

Mr.  Fuchs eases the pressure, but doesn't release the boy.  "Lets see
what we have her," Mr.  Fuchs says reaching into the boy's pocket.  He 
pulls out three Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, two Watchamacallits, two 
Snickers, one pack of Trident Sugarless Bubblegum and a pack of Upper 
Deck Basketball Cards. 

"Do you have a receipt for this stuff?"   Mr.  Fuchs asks. 

The boy shakes his head. 

"Well, I think we'll have to take a walk to the office and make a phone
call," Fuchs tells him. 

The boy breaks loose from Mr.  Fuchs' grasp.  He scampers for the door,
Mr. Fuchs in pursuit.  The boy has a big lead, and freedom is just 
beyond the turnstile gate.  But when he tries to vault the gate, his 
foot catches the top edge.  The boy sprawls face first on the other 
side, giving Fuchs time to catch up.  Mr.  Fuchs takes hold of the 
boy's collar.  The boy squirms crazily, hoping to pull free once more. 

"Don't!"  Mr.  Fuchs yells angrily. 

The boy squirms all the more. 

"Stop it!  NOW!"  Fuchs screams.  His hand darts under his blue blazer. 
Mr. Fuchs pulls out a .38 caliber revolver.  "Don't make me use this!"  
he cries, brandishing his gun in the youngster's face.  The boy's eyes 
bug out of his head. No more squirming.  Fuchs jerks the boy up to his 
feet.  "Now lets go to the office.  MARCH!"  The boy does as he's told. 


Mr.  Fuchs has the boy sit against the wall furthest from the office
door.  For a few seconds, Fuchs, his hand cradling the revolver, paces 
in front of the boy. Finally, he asks gruffily, "What's your name?" 

"Clyde," the boy answers softly. 

"Clyde what?   And speak up so I can hear you." 

The boy hesitates then says, "Clyde Hofer." 

"How old are you?" 

"Eleven," Clyde answers. 

"All right, Clyde," Fuchs voice becomes suddenly calm, his manner
fatherly. The gun, though, remains visible.  "You've got to understand 
that shoplifting is a very serious matter.  You may think its only 
fifty cent candy bars.  But Clyde, it's money out of my pocket.  
Yesterday, somebody ripped off forty-two assorted Sponge Bob and Mutant 
Ninja Turtle action figures.  How do I know you weren't involved in 
that?   How do I know you haven't ripped me off before?  Look, Clyde, I 
should turn you over to the police, but I've decided to give you a 
break.  I'll only call your parents.  This time.  What's their phone 
number? 

Clyde says nothing. 

"Parents or police?  Take your pick,"   Mr.  Fuchs tells him. 

"666-7999." 

Mr.  Fuchs picks up the phone.  He dials the number with his gun hand.
"Hello.  Is this the Hofer residence?"  Mr.  Fuchs' eyebrows furrow.  
He clenches his gun hand ever more tightly until it shakes perceptibly. 
 "I'm sorry," he says and slams the receiver down.  Mr.  Fuchs 
confronts Clyde.  "YOU DAMN PUNK!   What did you think that little 
trick would accomplish?  Make a fool out of me?  Well, buster, you've 
used up your last chance.  Lets see how you like dealing with the 
cops." 

Clyde stares fearfully at Mr.  Fuchs' gun waving menacingly in the air. 
Some tears begin to fall down his cheek. 

"Cut the cryin', you little thief," Fuchs shouts.  "It isn't gonna win
you any sympathy now.  You deserve what you get." 

Mr.  Fuchs' hand reaches for the phone.  He changes his mind, opens the
top drawer instead.  Mr.  Fuchs rummages there for a while before 
coming up with the object of his search   handcuffs, a professional 
set.  Mr.  Fuchs points his gun at Clyde.  "Come here," he commands.  
Clyde sobbing heavily obeys.  Mr.  Fuchs cuffs one half to the boy's 
left hand, the other to the bottom drawer of his desk. "There.  Now I 
won't have to worry about you running off again," comments Fuchs. 

Clyde's sobs grow louder and louder.  "Puhlease .    .   .  don't call .
  .   .  the po .   .   .  lice.  I'll .    .    .  pay for the .   .   
.  can .   .   .  dy.  I'm, I'm sorrry .    .     .  I'm sorry," he 
blurts out in spurts. 

"Too late, kid," Fuchs responds nastily.  "You blew it." 

Mr.  Fuchs turns his back on Clyde.  He holsters his revolver.  And
slowly, ever so slowly, Mr.  Fuchs dials the police. 

*              *              *              * 

CHRISTMAS NOW ON SALE AT WALGREENS 

LIST PRICE                $99.95 

LESS MANUFACTURER'S REBATE                    -$15.00 

YOUR COST                 $ 84.95 (Limit 2 per customer) 

*              *              *              * 

Fuchs Faces Tragedy 

"So when did they find him?"  Ed, the stock boy, asks Mr.  Lipsitz. 

"About ten this morning.  The police called her right after 10:30, "
Lipsitz answers. 

"Found who?" asks Freddie who's just walked in. 

"The missing father, " says Hailey. 

"Where?"  Freddie asks. 

"In some broken down hotel in the heart of Skid Row," Lipsitz informs
him.   "Dead as a doornail," adds Ed.  "Put a bullet through his head." 


"Suicide?"  asks Freddie. 

"Sure, it was suicide.  What else could it've been, " Hailey says, his
tone relegating Freddie to the rank of moron for having asked the 
question.  "Besides he left a note.  Admitted everything.  Said the old 
lady'd been havin' an affair and he couldn't take it anymore." 

"How'd Fuchs take it?"  Freddie knows this question is more stupid than
the last.  Father murders Mother with suicide for a chaser.  How would 
anyone react under those circumstances?  Rather obvious. 

"Not a tear.  Like nothin' happened.  Nothin' at all," reports Hailey. 

"Very, very calmly.  Left here ten minutes after the call to identify
the body. Called back about noon to say he'd be back at work on Friday. 
Matter of fact about the whole thing" is Lipsitz version. 

"He's coming back to work tomorrow?"  Freddie asks incredulously. 

"Fuckin' A unbelievable, " echoes Ed. 

"What's so unbelievable," states Hailey.  "Fuchs' got the world by the
ass now." 

Freddie looks at Hailey uncertainly. 

"Sure he does," Hailey explains.  "Both parents dead, who's gonna
inherit all their dough?  Fuchs, right?  The sucker's already rolling 
in it.  And now this.  He'll be able to buy two more Cadillacs." 

"And another yacht," says Ed. 

"A jumbo jet, " adds Lipsitz. 

"Two more shopping malls," is Hailey's next contribution. 

"Three summer homes and a second chauffeur," laughs Lipsitz. 

"A diamond ring for each finger."  It's Hailey again. 

"And mink lined toilets on every floor," Freddie joins in, although he
feels somewhat uncomfortable. 

"A hooker for every pot." 

The game goes on at Fuchs expense.  Everyone is so sympathetic.
Especially Mr.  Lipsitz.  He's decided not to fire Mr.  Fuchs.  Until 
it looks better. 

Lipsitz Rallies the Troops 

1.  A customer is the most important person in any business. 

2.  A customer is not an interruption of our work He is the purpose of
it. 

3.  A customer does us a favor when he comes in.  we aren't doing him a
favor by waiting on him. 

4.  A customer is not just money in the cash register.  he is a human
being with feelings, like our own. 

5.  A customer is a person who comes to us with his needs and wants. It
is our job to fill them. 

6.  A customer deserves the most courteous attention we can give him. 

7.  A customer is the lifeblood of this and every business. 

8.  The customer pays your salary.  without him we would have to close
our doors. DON'T EVER FORGET IT!. 

Freddie is impressed.  And inspired.  He adds three more nuggets of 
entrepreneurial wisdom: 

9.  A customer may be obnoxious with impunity as long as his money is
green, his credit card's valid and/or his checks don't bounce. 

10. A customer who is discourteous to other customers is to be given our
understanding, not a reprimand. 

11. A customer is king provided he doesn't adversely affect
profitability. 

"Cynic!  Cynic!" cries Carol who has watched Freddie inscribe his two
cents. 

"No," replies Freddie, "just a follower of the golden rule.  'Do unto
others as you would have them do unto you.'  I would like the customers 
to ignore me; so I ignore them.  It's as simple as that.  I'm not 
adamant about this.  I can be bought.Double my salary; and I'll lick a 
customer's boots anywhere." 

"To dream the impossible dream," sings Carol. 

"I know," says Freddie, interrupting Carol's aria.  "Nobody gives a shit
what I want.  Nobody from Lipsitz to Charlie Walgreen himself.  But 
that's to be expected. I'm not a customer. 

Had It Only Been Cindy Crawford 

8 p.m.   Christmas Eve.  All the last minute Veg-O-Matics, Texas style
mixed drink glasses, Plant Communicators and Chia Pets have been 
bought.  Two pound fruitcakes, originally $5.00 a piece, have reached 
two for a buck.  Santa Claus has come and gone, taking with him a case 
of Andre cold Duck.  Mr.  Mouth has shut up.  And the employees 
outnumber the customers. 

In the lunch room, Mr.  Hailey sits alone, a half-empty bottle of pink
champagne at his fingertips.  Strewn about are some three dozen empty 
champagne bottles.  Another dozen, as yet untouched, chill in a 
wastebasket full of melting ice. Mr.  Hailey is responsible for no 
fewer than four of the empties. 

Mr.  Fuchs walks in. 

"Terry, Terry, my ol' buddy," Hailey gushes.  "Where ya goin'?" "Home,"
Mr.  Fuchs answers. 

"Nope, nope.  Can't go yet."  Mr.  Hailey grabs Mr.  Fuchs by the arm. 
"Ya gotta si' down 'n' have a drink with me, ol' buddy.  It's 
Christmas.  Gotta have a Christmas drink t'gether." 

Mr.  Hailey's hold on Mr.  Fuchs' arm is vise-like.  Mr.  Fuchs sees no
choice.He sits down. 

Mr.  Hailey fills Mr.  Fuchs' plastic cup.  "How d'ya like this spread? 
Hailey asks.  "Food, champagne.  Fifteen years at Walgreens and I never 
seen nothin' like it.  Lipsitz is a helluva guy.  Helluva guy.  So are 
you, Terry.  Hey, I know we don' always get along so well.  But Jesus 
Chris' it's Christmas, and both of us had our troubles this year. 

Mr.  Fuchs says nothing.  He knows what's coming will upset him.  He
thinks about leaving, then makes a quick decision to grit his teeth and 
take it. After all, it is Christmas. 

"Dammit!  Musta been tough losin' both your parents that way," Hailey
continues.  "Real tough.  Gotta remember life goes on.  Life goes on.  
Hadda tell myself the same thing when my ol' lady went nuts an' pulled 
out.  Life goes on.  I know ya don' think that was as bad as wha' 
happened to you.  You jus' don' unnerstand.  It was.  It was.  I know 
how ya had to feel.  It really, really .   .   ." 

"Excuse me," a lady standing at the door to the lunch room interrupts
Hailey. 

"Excuse me, could you tell me where I could find the Blistex?" 

"I don' believe it," Hailey screams.  He jumps up and walks to the
woman. "I don' believe it," he screams again in her face.  "Eight 
o'clock on goddamn Chrismas Eve and you come in here for Blistex?"  
Hailey turns to Fuchs.  "D'ya believe her?" 

Fuchs doesn't answer. 

"Could you just tell me where the Blistex is?"  the woman asks Mr. 
Fuchs trying to ignore Hailey. 

"Goddamit!  Yer the reason I have to be here on Chrismas Eve.  Yer the
reason we all have to be here on Chrismas Eve.  Four cashiers and two 
assistants. We give up our Chrismas Eve so you can come in a eight 
a'fucking clock for Blistex.  Unreal!  Fuckin' unreal!  I don' believe 
you." 

The woman remains unruffled.  "What's yer name?" she asks Hailey. 

"My name?   Unreal!  First Blistex, now my name.  At eight a'clock on
fuckin' Chrismas Eve."  Hailey shakes his head. 

"What's your name?" the woman repeats.  "I work for Walgreens too, and
I'd like to report you." 

"Report ME!  What's yer name?  I'd like to put a sign in the window with
yer name in lights.  She kept us here past eight a'clock on Chrismas so 
she could but Blistex!" 

"What's your name?" 

Hailey takes off his name tag.  "Tis the season to be jolly," he sings
as he flips it to her. 

The woman reads it, hands it back to Hailey and leaves. 

"Didja believe her, Terry?"  Hailey says on entering the lunch room
again. "Terry?" 

Fuchs is gone.  He's used the row to make good his escape.   Hailey
flops down in his chair.  He ignores his plastic cup and chugs the rest 
of the pink champagne right from the bottle. 

"Silver bells, silver bells," Hailey is several bars behind the Muzak. 
"I's Chrismas time in the city.  Jing-a-ling, hear them sing .    .    
."      Freddie walks in.  Hailey breaks off his caroling. 

"Freddie!"  Hailey shouts.  "Si' down, Freddie ol' buddy.  Ya gotta have
a Chrismas drink wi' me.  Oops!  Bottle's empty."  Hailey pops open a 
bottle of Cold Duck.  Only eleven more to go. 

Kama Sutra Here I Come 

Freddie is filling the milk cooler late one Saturday night when out of
the corner of his eye he notices a man approaching. 

"You got drugstore here?"  the man asks Freddie in a thick, high pitched
accent.  The man is Indian. 

"What?"  Freddie asks in return, not certain he's heard correctly. 

"You got drugstore?" the Indian repeats. 

"The entire store is a drugstore."  Freddie sweeps his right hand to
include everything from one wall to the other.  "What specifically do 
you need?" 

"Prophy-LOKtic.  I need prophy-LOKtic." 

"We have them in pharmacy.  But it closed several hours ago." 

"No, no.  I need now.  Let me see manager." 

"Mr.  Hailey, " Freddie shouts towards the office.  "Mr.  Hailey, I need
customer assistance here." 

Mr.  Hailey peer out from the office door.  "What now?" he barks
angrily. 

"This gentleman want some rubbers," Freddie answers.     The Indian
walks behind the counter right up to Hailey.  "I need prophy-LOKtic," 
he repeats. 

"Pharmacy closed at 6:00," Mr.  Hailey drones.  I can't get anything out
of pharmacy without a pharmacist present.  State law.  It opens at 9:30 
tomorrow morning.  Come back then." 

"No, you do not understand.  I need now."  The Indian's speech becomes
more rapid, takes on a staccato effect.  "I have rich American widow in 
car, waiting for me to take to my apartment and instruct in Kama Sutra. 
I cannot wait until tomorrow." 

"Pharmacy opens tomorrow at 9:30," Mr.  Hailey says again.  "I got
Baggies and rubber bands in the store.  Guaranteed to hold up under 
stress." 

The Indian's angry.  He storms toward the door.  Freddie taps him on the
elbow as he goes by.  The Indian stops.  "Hey, there's an E-Z Go two 
blocks north that's open until midnight.   They got Mexican Toreadors 
in the men's room.  Two for seventy-five cents.  Or if you want 
something special, Natural Ticklers.  Feel like skin.  Drive women into 
a frenzy.  Only a quarter more." 

The Indian spits at Freddie's feet.  "Capitalist, peeg!" he screams. 

The Indian leaves the store.  Freddie looks down at the glob of sputum
on the floor.  "Fill the customer's needs.  What a crock!" he comments 
with disgust. "Never again." 

One more Freddie dives into the half and half. 

Be My Valentine 

Valentine's Day.  Freddie enters the lunch room and is hit smack between
the eyes with something new.  The "Wall of Lovers".   Large red hearts 
inscribed with the names of cashiers and their boyfriends, stock boys 
and their girlfriends fill the wall.  The heart in the upper left 
corner starts Freddie's head throbbing and his body shaking.  "Keith 
and Linda", it proclaims.  No, not just "Keith and Linda". Underneath 
that is an addition, "ALWAYS 'N' FOREVER". 

Freddie lights a match, arson in mind.  But when he chances upon an
unused heart and a black marker beside the coffee pot, Freddie switches 
instantaneously from Protest A to Protest B.  Soon Freddie's own heart 
takes its place on the "Wall of Lovers" directly beneath Linda's.  In 
bold letters it tells the world, "FREDDIE AND FELICIA FIVE 
FINGERS/EVERLASTING DEVOTION". 

Fuchs Joins the Breadline 

"I knew something was up," relates Ed.  "I said hi to him and he stormed
right past me into the locker room.  He looked like he was gonna cry at 
any moment." 

"You shoulda seen him a few minutes earlier when the boss told him,"
Hailey says with pleasure.  "Man, was he steamin'.  He started yellin' 
at the boss about his rights.  The boss kept sayin' 'You're through" 
and finally turned his back on him.  For a hot second, I thought 
Fuchsie was gonna whip out his gun.  He wasmad enough." 

"Good thing he didn't," comments Freddie, who wasn't there.  He probably
would have shot himself in the foot.  I don't think he's ever used the 
damn thing." 

"I think it's sad," offers Carol.  "First he loses his parent and now
his job.  And so abruptly too.  Everybody knew Lipsitz didn't like 
Fuchs, but there was no indication he'd fire him.  I feel sorry for 
Terry." 

"Feel sorry for him," snorts Hailey.  "Why feel sorry for him?  He ain't
about to go on welfare.  Poor Fuchsie.  He'll probably wind up drowning 
his sorrows on a beach in Acapulco.  I only wish I had his problems." 

"Now, now," chides Freddie.  "You'll mis him, Mr.  Hailey.  We'll all
miss Mr. Fuchs.  Who's gonna bring us homemade fruitcake next Christmas 
Eve?" 

"Shit!  The only thing I'll miss is my days off 'til they bring in a
replacement." 

Ed, who disappeared at the mention of Fuchs' fruitcake, returns, his
right hand behind his back.  "Ta da," he sings.  "Our dear departed 
leader."   Ed  produces a Polaroid of Fuchs sipping champagne at the 
Christmas party.  He attaches it to the no pest strip hanging from the 
ceiling.  "Now," says Ed, "a moment of silence please.  Mr.  Fuchs, 
there'll never be another quite like him."  Ed ends his eulogy by 
flipping the finger at Fuchs' swaying image. Everybody laughs their 
agreement. 

Freddie Pops the Question 

Freddie comes to work fifteen minutes early one Saturday.  He's decided
toask Linda out.  Linda's on register one.  Freddie taps her on the 
shoulder and winks when she looks.  "Hi ya shweetie," he gushes 
bravely. 

"Oh hi, Freddie, " Linda says accompanied by a smile.  "You work today?"


"Punch in in fifteen minutes." 

Linda has a short line.  Three customers.  Freddie decides to wait until
they're gone before asking her.  The line doesn't go down.  It gets 
longer.  Five minutes go by.  Eight.  Freddie's heart pounds faster, 
his stomach jumps more wildly as each minute disappears.  Freddie 
stares daggers at each new customer who arrives.  "C'mon you asshole, 
can't you wait ten minutes," he screams at them silently. 

At last Freddie can take no more.  He moves next to Linda and bags
frantically for her.  No more customers arrive.  The line shortens.  
Three customers, two, one.  The last wants three packs of Salems.  
Freddie pushes past Linda.  No Salems in the rack.  He rips open a 
fresh carton, hands three to Linda who passes them to the customer.  
They're alone.  Four minutes to go. 

"Thanks, Freddie," says Linda.  "Why don't you stay her 'til five and be
my cigarette fetcher." 

Freddie shakes his head.  Three minutes.  "Got to ask her.  Got to ask
her now.  Now or never," he thinks, eyeing the clock.  "Lin," her name 
barely gets out of Freddie's throat. 

"Hmmmm." 

"Lin, I was wondering .   .   .  I was wondering if you're doing
anything tomorrow." 

"I don't know, " Linda answers hesitantly. 

"Because if you're not, Happy Feet's at the Cinema.  It's really cute
and different.  We could go see it."  The words spill out rapidly, 
Freddie afraid that if he stops he'll never finish.  Freddie looks at 
Linda.  No immediate response.  But the expression on her face Freddie 
understands immediately.  "Dammit, Freddie, I like you and I don't want 
to hurt you, but I couldn't go out with you," it says. Freddie's gaze 
shifts to the floor. 

"I'm working tomorrow all day.  I don't think I'd be able to go," he
hears Linda tell him.  It's not much of an excuse.  Freddie knows she's 
through at six.  She'd have gone if Keith asked her.  She'd have gone 
if her interest in him went beyond being buddies. 

"We could go in the evening," Freddie counters mechanically.  "Think
about it, O.K.?" 

"I will," Linda says. 

Freddie nods appreciatively and drifts off quietly to punch in.  "You
won't," he mumbles when he's sure Linda can no longer hear. 

A Cataclysmic Discussion 

"She said no," Freddie glumly tells Carol.   Carol is Freddie's best
friend. Sometimes he thinks he loves her more than Linda because he 
knows Carol feels very deeply about him and Linda doesn't.  But Carol 
is married.  With three children.  Her marriage is a technicality which 
makes her unavailability acceptable in a way Linda's can never be.  
"Actually she never used the word.  It was "no" all the same." 

"Are you sure?"  Carol asks. 

"Yep.  She used the 'I'm working tomorrow' excuse.  Hell, that didn't
stop her when she went out with that clown she met at the student 
union.  It was no," Freddie reports with bitterness. Carol sighs.  "I'm 
sorry," she says. 

"That's not enough," Freddie snaps. 

"I know." 

Freddie's eyes start to water.  He blinks repeatedly to keep the tears
from showing.  "Shit, Carol, I'm tired.  I'm tired of always comin' up 
empty.  I'm tired of watching someone else get what I want.  It's 
getting to be too damned much. Constantly being alone scares me.  I 
can't last this way much longer." 

"I wish I could help.  You know I would if I could," Carol says quietly,
touching Freddie gingerly on the cheek. 

Freddie pulls his head back.  "You can't.  There's nothing anybody can
do.  I always run into the same deadend and always will." 

"I don't believe that.  At least, I don't want to believe that," Carol
says, trying once more to soothe Freddie's feelings.  "I love you.  You 
know I do.  Any woman would if you'd only let her know you as well as I 
do." 

"It don't work that way," Freddie growls.  "Shit, it's not even a matter
of being rejected.  I'm not considered at all.  And that's infinitely 
worse.  Every woman I've ever been attracted to has liked me, liked me 
a lot.  But not one of them has thought of me as someone to get 
involved with.  I'll bet if you told any one of them how I felt, their 
response would be 'Really?  Good old safe Freddie?  I don't believe it. 
 I never imagined he felt that way.'  Always the Platonic crap. That's 
Linda's game too.  Just another addition in the endless pattern.  I'm 
sick of it. 

Carol keeps still.  She feels helpless. 

"I can't last much longer," Freddie repeats.  "Can you imagine spending
fifty more years like this?  Fifty years?  Nooo way!  No way!  I won't 
even last another winter." 

"Don't say that!" exclaims Carol.  "You're gonna live a long time. 
You're a survivor, Freddie." 

"The hell I am.  It ain't a matter of if I'll pull the plug, but when. 
It won't take very much more to push me over the edge.  And you know 
it's true." 

Carol looks sadly at Freddie.  "You sure have a knack for picking up my
evenings.  I want so much for you to be happy.  It really bothers me 
when you talk this way." 

"I'm sorry," Freddie says.  "Somebody has to hear it." 

They say nothing to each other for several minutes, Freddie sitting on
some beer cases watching Carol stock the liquor shelves.  Finally, 
Freddie begins buttoning his coat. "You're leaving me," Carol declares. 


"You got it," replies Freddie. 

Carol puts her hand in Freddie's; and they walk toward the front of the
store. "You know what's funny?" she asks. 

"What?" 

"I had a dream about you getting killed the other night." 

"Yea?  So how did it go?" 

"You were walking past the store," Carol relates, "and you looked into
the window to wave at me.  Just then a man you'd hired to kill you came 
from behind and blasted you with a shotgun.  You fell through the glass 
into the aisle.  There was blood everywhere.  It was so horrible I woke 
up shaking." 

Freddie smiles wryly at Carol.  "Not bad," he laughs.  "Not bad at all. 
Thanks for the idea." 

"Don't you dare," screams Carol.  "I shouldn't have told you." 

"Calm yourself, love.  Calm yourself.  That's too messy anyway.  And too
painful.  I'll probably O.D." 

"Not soon.   O.K.?"  Carol is serious.  She wants assurance. 

"I'll wait until I quit Walgreens; and we don't see each other any
more," Freddie tells her.  "How's that?  Better?" 

"Not much," Carol sighs wistfully. 

They kiss good-bye.  Freddie heads for the door.  "Please take care of
yourself," Carol calls after him.  Freddie, never breaking stride, 
shrugs his shoulders. 

*              *              *              * Circus Daze at Walgreens.
 Mr.  Lipsitz decides to go all out for the promotion.  He dresses his 
cashiers as trapeze artists and bareback riders, his stock boys and 
clerks as clowns.  A dog act performs in front of the store, a knife 
thrower in liquor and chimpanzees sell cosmetics.  Meanwhile, Mr.  
Hailey tames miniature mechanized lions in a make-shift cage next to 
pharmacy.  The promotion's climax comes at 5:00 p.m. on Saturday when 
Ringmaster Lipsitz pulls out the name of the grand prize winner.  The 
prize:  an all expenses paid weekend for two at the Circus Museum in 
Baraboo, Wisconsin. 

*              *              *              * 

The Award 

The make-shift dais is filled with Walgreens' dignitaries.  Flanking the
podium on either side as such notables as the secretary to the 
assistant to the assistant southwest side district manager, Miriam 
Bradley; Walgreens World managing editor, Douglas Desmond; employee 
liaison troubleshooter, Morton Gerard; and the assistant district 
manager for the southwest side, Alphonso Santini.  These, though, are 
merely minor decoration, for seated on Mr.  Lipsitz' left hand is Odell 
Sambuca, the southwest side district manager himself, and, on his 
right, Prescott Sherwood Latimer IV, recording secretary to Walgreens' 
board of directors, a man who has broken bread for Charles Walgreen III 
on several occasions.  These dignitaries have gatherer under auspicious 
circumstances.  One of Mr.  Lipsitz' cashiers is about to receive the 
prestigious Charles R.  Walgreen II Valor in Ringing Award for the 
month of August. 

The crowd, some thirty-five strong, of employees, relatives,
well-wishers and customers who've wandered onto the ceremony by 
accident hushes as Mr.  Lipsitz approaches the microphone.  Mr.  
Lipsitz introduces the assembled dignitaries, then calls on Mr.  
Sambuca, who, after two off-color jokes, launches into a twenty minute 
discourse on Charles R.  Walgreen II and the history of the Valor in 
Ringing Award.  Finally, the long-delayed moment arrives.   "Now to 
present this month's award," intones Mr.  Sambuca, "Charles R. Walgreen 
III's personal representative   Prescott Sherwood Latimer IV." 

Prescott Sherwood Latimer IV walks slowly to the podium.  He shakes Mr.
Sambuca's hand vigorously.  When the polite applause from either side 
of him has gone on long enough, Prescott Sherwood Latimer IV clears his 
throat.  The applause dies out. 

"Thank you."  Prescott Sherwood Latimer IV's voice is deep, his diction
precise.  "As my friend, Odee Sambuca, has so eloquently elucidated the 
Charles R. Walgreen II Valor in Ringing Award is one of the company's 
oldest, most prestigious awards.  But before I present this month's 
award, let me recapitulate the actions we are so honoring.  It happened 
on a typical Sunday afternoon in July. Hot, sultry, it was the kind of 
day that tries the temper of both customer and cashier.  On this 
Sunday, Noreen Plaszcz was ringing on register one, ringing as she has 
done so many Sundays before and since.  But at 1:32 p.m. that Sunday 
something unusual and frightening took place.  While ringing a 
thirty-two dollar sale, Ms.  Plaszcz was attacked viciously and without 
apparent provocation by a South American Killer Bee.  The attack was 
swift and painful.  Yet so intent was Ms.  Plaszcz on making the 
correct change that she remained totally oblivious to the bee's 
presence until her next customer greeted her with 'There's a bee on 
your neck.'  Ms.  Plaszcz warded off her attacker.  It was too late.  
She had been stung. 

"Now no one would have blamed Ms.  Plaszcz had she sought immediate
medical assistance.  But with her relief on lunch and a dozen customers 
waiting to be checked out, Ms.  Plaszcz simply ignored the ever 
increasing pain and swelling. Not only did she dissipate the line, Mr.  
Plaszcz filled out four requests for film processing and directed two 
customers to the sale mushrooms besides.  Only when every customer had 
been serviced did Ms.  Plaszcz stagger to pharmacy for first aid. 

"This courageous act, above and beyond the duties outlined in Walgreens'
Cashiers' Training Manual is deserving of the highest accolades and 
recognition the Walgreens' company can bestow.  Would Noreen Plaszcz 
please join me?" 

Noreen makes her way across the dais and stands next to Prescott
Sherwood Latimer IV. 

"Noreen, on behalf of Charles R.  Walgreen III, the Walgreens' board of
directors and the whole Walgreens' chain, I proudly present you with 
the Charles R. Walgreen II Valor in Ringing Award for the month of 
August."  Prescott Sherwood Latimer IV hands Noreen a twelve inch gold 
plated cash register with her name (misspelled) and the date inscribed 
on the drawer.  "And," Prescott Sherwood Latimer IV goes on, "as an 
extra token of the company's appreciation, the board of directors has 
voted you this bonus check and merchandise certificate as adjuncts to 
the Valor in Ringing Award itself." 

Noreen takes the check for $12.50 (minus taxes) and the certificate good
for a lifetime supply of Sting Away. 

"Ms.  Plaszcz, you are a credit to the company.  With cashiers like you,
we at Walgreens can be confident of being the best for many, many years 
to come." Prescott Sherwood Latimer IV kisses Noreen enthusiastically 
on the cheek, the moment captured forever by a Walgreens World 
photographer.  Misters Sambuca and Lipsitz make it a foursome.  More 
pic tures.  Douglas Desmond spirits Noreen away for an interview.  The 
event will get a two page feature spread in October's Walgreens World. 

Lipsitz, Sambuca and Prescott Sherwood Latimer IV exchange handshakes
and compliments.  "A very nice ceremony, I thought," offers Mr.  
Lipsitz.  "Your remarks truly captured the essence of this award," he 
directs at both his superiors. 

"Thank you, Art," Prescott Sherwood Latimer IV answers.  "You know I'm
impressed with your store.  Particularly the drug wall.  It's very 
attractive.  A nice piece of merchandising.  Wouldn't you say so, 
Odee?" 

"Absolutely!  Art's one of the best men in my district," comments Mr.
Sambuca. 

"Well thank you both," fawns Mr.  Lipsitz.  "I always pay special
attention to the drug wall.   It's really a keystone at any Walgreens." 


"Precisely," Prescott Sherwood Latimer IV says, rubber stamping Lipsitz'
observation.  "I wish all our managers were similarly aware of the drug 
wall's importance.  Hmmm.  There's a regional manager's conference 
coming up in three weeks, isn't there?  What would you say, Art, to 
heading up a seminar on the drug wall at that conference." 

"It would be a real honor," Lipsitz says with gusto. 

"Good.  I'll look forward to it.  I think the board of directors will
share my enthusiasm as well.  It should be one of the more interesting 
and informative seminars at the conference," Prescott Sherwood Latimer 
IV opines. 

"I'll do my best," says Mr.  Lipsitz. 

Prescott Sherwood Latimer IV nods his approval.  He gives Mr.  Lipsitz a
couple of reserved pats on the back.  Mr.  Lipsitz beams in response.  
The ceremony, the pictures, the accolades, heading a seminar at an 
almost board member's invitation, all feathers in his cap.  Mr.  
Lipsitz is on his way. 

Freddie Does Marceau 

From the parking lot, Freddie can see Carol standing at the liquor
counter.  He locks his car and beelines to the window.  Freddie stands 
there motionlessly, peering in at Carol and waiting for her to notice 
him.  When she does, Freddie waves with his fingers.  Carol blows him a 
kiss.  Freddie turns, takes one step, then stops, his face terror 
stricken.  "NO!  NO!  NO!  Don't do it!" he screams in mute 
exaggeration.  It doesn't help.  Two imaginary shotgun blasts plaster 
him against the store window.  Freddie's charade produces a mutual 
smile.  Quite a strange reaction. Neither he nor Carol find it funny. 

Good Night Sweet Fuchs 

Freddie visits Linda on his night off.  He finds her in the stationery
aisle. Linda has news for him.  "Didja hear?  Fuchs is dead." 

Freddie shakes his head in disbelief.  "When?  Where?  Why?  How?" he
rattles off in quick succession.  Freddie readies himself for a punch 
line. 

There isn't any.  "Hailey told me.  Said Fuchs committed suicide." 

"Suicide?"  Freddie is stunned.  Fuchs never fit the stereotype. 

"It's true.  He put that gun he used to carry into his mouth and pulled
the trigger.  He left some instructions for his funeral and burial, but 
no explanations. That's what Hailey said." 

"When did it happen?"  Freddie asks. 

"Two days ago.   Halloween night." 

"Unreal!"  gasps Freddie.  "I was kidding Ed that whole night to be
careful, that the ghost of the headless Fuchs was gonna grab him in the 
stockroom.  Talk about irony." 

They both laugh nervously. 

Linda changes the subject.   A concert she went to the night before
segues into a party she'll go to Saturday evening.  And through it all 
the inevitable, the unfailing presence of Keith.  Too much Keith.   
Freddie wishes the conversation had never strayed from Fuchs' death.  
He'd prefer morbidity to this reality. 

Freddie leaves Linda sooner than he's planned.  He feels a bit sad, a
bit disgusted and a whole lot frustrated.  All the way home Freddie 
thinks of Terry Fuchs.  Question: Did Terry need any practice? 

*              *              *              * Attention!  Attention! 
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Let our staff of smiling shrinks  Irving, Sigmund, Bruce, Jerzy, B.F.,
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will make you a healthy, happy, normal individual once more, free from 
the nagging symptoms of personality disorder.     End that depressive 
trip to the frightening land of mental breakdown.  Stop by today for an 
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Remember Walgreens for the finest in psychological care.  May we have
your next Freudian slips?  Visa and MasterCard accepted.  Walgreens, 
your complete shoppers' center. 

*              *              *              * 

Freddie Flies Over the Rainbow 

On his way to the Muncher, Freddie sees Linda enter the washroom at the
far end of the hallway.  Freddie drops the empty boxes he's carrying 
and hurries into the locker room.  Seconds later he emerges with a 
bulky package under his arm.  "Might as well get this over with," he 
thinks as he waits for Linda to come out.  Freddie can't understand why 
the two of them ever decided to exchange  Christmas presents.  The door 
opens at last.  "Merry Christmas, Lu," Freddie says handing her the 
package.  Freddie's eyes shift to the floor.  He's blushing for no 
apparent reason; and it embarrasses him. 

"Thank you, " responds Linda.  She's blushing too.  She's left Freddie's
present at home.  "I'm really sorry about forgetting your present.  
It's been so crazy at home yesterday and today.  My sister's car was 
stolen and .   .   ." 

"Not important," Freddie assures her.  "Open it." 

Linda removes the wrapping paper, tears off the tape holding down the
flaps.  Inside is a medium sized stuffed blue panda, its arms 
encircling a miniature blue panda.  "There so cyoo .   .   .," Linda 
starts to say until she remembers Freddie's aversion to the word 
"cute".  "They're adorable," she amends.  "This is nice. Thank you, 
Freddie." 

"Read the card," Freddie reminds her. 

Linda takes the card from the envelope.  To the left of Cookie Monster
wishing her a merry Christmas and lots of cookies, Freddie has written: 
"I know this isn't the best Christmas present you'll ever get.  I only 
hope, Lu, that every time you see it, you'll be reminded that I love 
you (OOPS!)  very much."  Linda and Freddie look at each other.  The 
hallway is narrow.  They're alone.  It's Christmas. They kiss. 

The kiss is more than friendly, less than passionate.  Freddie, who
thought he had a firm handle on Linda's feelings for him, becomes 
confused.  Possibilities once dead renew.  Freddie gropes for a word, a 
gesture which will intensify their relationship, take it beyond this 
moment. 

"Do you work tomorrow?"   Linda asks softly.  She clasps Freddie's
shoulder, maintaining contact. 

"Yes."  Freddie cautiously slips his arm under Linda's.  His fingertips
caress her shoulder. 

"I'll bring your present first thing tomorrow," Linda tells him. 

"I'll watch for you," Freddie says. 

Linda and Freddie kiss once more.  "I gotta go now," murmurs Linda.  "I
hafta get back up front."  Linda pulls away from Freddie and backs 
toward the store proper.  Their moment is over. Linda pauses at the 
doorway.  "I'm really sorry, Freddie," she apologizes ye another time.  
"I shouldn't have forgot your present." 

"No big deal," Freddie replies.  And he means it.  An old dream's been
given a touch of life.  Freddie has never received anything nicer. 

Back to Kansas, Toto 

Christmas Day.  Time drags slowly for Freddie.  All morning he keeps a
watchful eye on the entrance, expecting Linda at any instant.  She 
never comes. By the time Freddie's relieved for lunch at 2:00 p.m., 
he's stopped watching.  He assumes he's been forgotten again.      
Freddie's Christmas dinner is a Diet Pepsi and a candy bar.  He's still 
debating whether a Willy Wonka Superskrunch or a Christmas tree shaped 
Reese's Peanut Butter Cup is more "Christmasy" when a voice from behind 
quizzes, "Your second break so soon?" 

Linda! 

"Nope lunch."  Freddie turns around; Linda hands him a package.  "Merry
Christmas, hon," she says. 

Freddie smiles broadly at Linda.  He moves closer to kiss her, then
freezes. Someone at the head of the candy aisle is watching.  Keith. 
"We're on our way to a party."  Linda motions to include herself and 
Keith. "I thought you'd be in liquor.  Who's there now?" 

"Ed." 

"Do you think he'll sell us something?" Linda asks. 

"Probably.  I suppose.  I don't know, " Freddie mumbles.  "Ask him." 

Linda pats Freddie on the arm.  "Merry Christmas," she says again. 
"Have a nice holiday, Freddie."  Linda joins Keith.  They walk toward 
liquor, his arm around her waist. 

"Merry Christmas," Freddie repeats gloomily. 

End of dream. 

Alone in the breakroom, Freddie falls into a depressive funk.  Even so
he does open his gift, reluctantly.  A blue flannel shirt.  
"Wonderful," thinks Freddie, not at all cheered.  "Every time I put 
this on I can be reminded just how insignificant I am to her."  Freddie 
tosses the shirt where he can't see it.  He begins to aimlessly tear 
napkins and coffee stirrers into tiny pieces.  Minutes go by.  The pile 
grows.  So does Freddie's depression.  Over the loudspeaker the Ray 
Conniff Singers go walking in a winter wonderland.  All those lovers 
building snowmen and conspiring 'round the fire make Freddie slightly 
nauseous.  He thinks endlessly of Linda and Keith together.  His 
depression deepens.  Freddie holds back tears.  Two or three fall down 
his cheek anyway. 

Sarah comes bursting through the door.  "Freddie!  Merry Christmas! 
How's it in liquor?  Busy?" 

Freddie doesn't answer.  He doesn't bother to look up. 

"Freddie!"  Sarah exclaims, astonished at his lack of cheer.  "Talk to
me! What's wrong?  You shouldn't be so sad on Christmas.  I have to 
tinkle, but when I get back we'll talk about it." 

"Right," sneers Freddie after Sarah has disappeared into the ladies
room. "I'm sure gonna talk to someone who 'tinkles'."  Freddie takes 
refuge from Sarah's phony concern in a dimly lit corner of the 
stockroom where he's unlikely to be disturbed.  He sits Indian style on 
the conveyor belt, amusing himself for a time by pushing his hands 
between the rollers, wondering what would happen if they'd get stuck.  
When the novelty of that wears off, Freddie smashes his fist into the 
concrete wall twice.  The first time he pulls the punch.  Not the 
second.  The pain is sharp, intense.  Freddie examines his hand.  He's 
disappointed.  No break, no swelling.  Skinned knuckles is all.  As 
Freddie dabs the blood onto his smock, he mutters under his breath, "I 
hate being alive."  He says it again, a little louder. Once more, 
louder still.  Finally, it becomes a scream, the loudest Freddie can 
muster, reverberating through the empty stockroom.  "I HATE BEING 
ALIVE!" 

Nobody hears.  Not god (Freddie figures he's too busy shooting craps
somewhere), not the ghost of headless Terry Fuchs, not nosy, insincere 
Sarah less than 150 feet away.  Nobody.  Freddie is alone with his 
misery.  "It ain't fair," he moans sadly.  "It ain't fair at all."   
Freddie moans incessantly for several minutes.  He moans about Linda's 
lack of understanding.  He moans about Keith's adolescent good fortune. 
 He moans about every girl he's never had a relationship with.  In the 
end though, it's himself Freddie moans about the most.  He feels 
absolutely unnecessary. 

Abruptly the moaning stops.  An idea has entered Freddie's head, one so
deliciously gory and gruesome that he claps his hands in delight.  
Freddie hops down from the conveyor belt and rushes to the Muncher.  
Boldly he goes where no man has gone before. 

"Are you sure about this?"  Freddie asks himself.  "It's one helluva way
to go." 

"Damn straight," he answers. 

Freddie settles in with the cardboard.  He feels quite at home.  "I'll
give my "friend" something to talk about.  A flick of the wrist and .   
  .    .  SPLAT!  A Walgreens' legend.  They'll gag over me for years." 
 Freddie wonders who'll discover him.  He hopes it's Sarah.  He'll 
really give her cause to "tinkle". 

Freddie leans forward to get at the start button.  As he does, his head
bumps the steel platen above.  Freddie pauses.  His mind pictures the 
platen's descent, the initial pressure, the cracking bones, the 
splitting flesh, the bulging popping eyeballs, his brain oozing out, 
his remains human mashed potatoes .   .     .  "No, dammit, no!" 
Freddie upbraids himself.  "You're only gonna scare yourself out of it. 
Get on with it shithead!" 

Freddie kneels just inside the mouth of the Muncher.  His left hand
snakes up the outside of the control panel.  With some hesitation, 
Freddie reaches for the start button.  He pauses, then jams it hard.  
Nothing happens.  He presses it five more times rapidly.  Then it dawns 
on him.  The Muncher cannot operate with the door open.  but if he 
closes it he can't get at the control panel.  Some joke.  A real knee 
slapper, his very own Catch-22.  Freddie, a black humor afficionado, 
knows he should be laughing, laughing uproariously.   He doesn't crack 
a smile. 

A short time later Freddie is back at the liquor register. 
Uncharacteristically, he gushes out a merry Xmas and a Happy New Year 
to everyone he sees until closing.  Yes, a transformation has occurred. 
  Freddie is a new man.  Thank you, Charles Dickens.  Thank you, Jack 
Daniels. 

*    *     *      * 

Attention!  Attention, Walgreens shoppers!  The store is about to
explode.  Please bring your final purchases to the front checkout 
counters.  And thank you for shopping Walgreens.  It's the fun place to 
shop.


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