How to Find God In a CVS Parking Lot Off of Vine Street

Self-seeking on tilt. Raymond Carver's love and mercy. Thich Nhat Hanh to the rescue. TAB.

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Hi, it’s me A.J., back from a brief hiatus. Thanks again to Ben TG for the fill-ins.

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Just to check in: A couple of weeks ago, I was rushing to CVS to get there before the pharmacy closed because my Lamictal was empty, and I never like to go to bed without it because I get too filled with fluttering, paranoid thoughts. I left my house at 5:40, one of those ten-minute drives that could sometimes take 15, but I was powerless. I had to deal with whatever happened and try not to fixate on the idea that if I don’t take my medication, I could be doomed to a long night worrying that I might kill myself. There was a long light on Franklin, a short one on Vine, and I was jogging through the parking lot with 8 minutes to spare I hoped but who knows if the pharmacists want to cut out early on a Saturday night and get loose.

On the way in, one man tried to flag me down for 50 cents, but I jogged on by him and told him I had no cash, which was completely true, and then on the way into the door, there was another man in a wheelchair who asked for anything I had to offer, and I told him the same.

There was no pharmacy line, and I got my Lamictal a few minutes before they pulled the big roll shade down at the pick-up window. What a miracle, I thought, even though it was a pretty ordinary occurrence that required no divine intervention other than mostly unobstructed traffic. But I was puffing with gratitude, so I decided to hit the ATM to take out a $20 bill before I left, so I could hook up the guys in the parking lot.

I paid my $3.50 transaction fee for the Citibank ATM, took my $20, grabbed a cheap, $1.25 water from the fridge, and waited in line near the front register behind a few other people. As I waited, I began to envision how amazing it was going to feel when I gave those two lucky fellas about $8 each. I was pretty sure the guy in the wheelchair would probably take the money, weep, grab my hand, pull me in for a hug. That would be okay. I’d let him hold me for a few seconds, but separate myself with intense eye contact as I moved on. “You have a good day now, sir.”

Then I’d move on to the next guy, who would most likely be dejectedly sitting on the curb, unsure if anyone would give him 50 cents that day, or even just a smile. I’d swoop in and push the $8 into his hand, whispering, “You go get yourself a hot meal tonight, my friend!” He’d also extend his hand to me, and I’d take it, smiling like Christ, and assure him that he’d survive the night. Oh, wait — what’s that? Ah, the CVS manager is waving me back inside. My new wheelchair friend is pointing at me.

As the electronic doors ding open for me again, I see the manager at the front register turning on the in-store speaker to let customers know what’s happening. “Not to embarrass him, but the man over there in the sweatshirt hiding with his hood up is doing an act of service rarely seen these days…”

I snapped out of my savior daydream because the manager was actually trying to grab everyone’s attention — the line I was standing in was for booze only. Everyone who wasn’t buying booze would have to head over to the self-checkout lane. Huh. Funny and somewhat inconvenient, but this is a journey all heroes are forced to make.

I scanned the cheap water bottle across the reader, and a strange number popped up on the screen, something like $7.69. Oh damn — well now what?

I didn’t want to go back in line and mention something to the manager because if I come off like someone who’s complaining, then there’s no way he’d stop what he’s doing a few minutes later to let everyone know what a stellar human I am, the type of human willing to spend an extra 20 minutes at CVS to give green money and a smile to some of our unhoused neighbors in the parking lot.

I grumbled and stuck my $20 into the machine, and it spat me back a ten, a one, and several coins. This deeply annoyed me because now I would have to give one guy $10 and the other guy $1.50-ish, forcing me to choose which one was more deserving. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.