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It’s Not The Same Anymore It was five o’clock; Betty headed toward the storage room in the back of the drugstore to pick up her coat. She stopped by the pharmacy and peered at Walter over the row of vitamins. He sat at his desk filing prescriptions he dispensed that day. “I hope you won’t get swamped tonight,” she said with playful sarcasm. “No chance of that,” Walter said, “unless old Farley shows up at the last minute to tell, for the thousandth time, his skinny dipping in Dorena Lake story. She picked up her coat, put it on, and checked the delivery door to be sure it was locked. She saw the box of vitamins from McKesson Drugs delivered that afternoon. It was the order she had placed a couple of days earlier and hadn’t the time to take care of. “I should remember tomorrow morning to fill up the empty spots.” The 65-year-old Betty, born in this small town with a population of no more than 1500, was a petite, silver-haired woman who kept herself admirably young for her age. She had been Walter’s assistant and clerk since he bought the drugstore in Canyonville 15 years ago. She loved working for him, and the two developed a solid mutual friendship and respect for one another beyond an employer/employee relationship. She was practically part of the fixtures at Walter’s drugstore. With her great personality and sincere smile, men and women loved her. She often teased older single or widowed men. She would cup their hand in both of her hands and say with a big smile, “Tell me, does this give you a thrill?” and she would laugh heartily and so would they. Every morning half an hour before opening at nine o’clock, she unlocked the door with her key. Walter would have already been in the store and would have turned on the lights, but kept the “Closed” sign hanging on the door. Like clockwork, he sat at his desk in the pharmacy and did his paperwork, tying up loose ends before the store opened. Most mornings, as was their routine, on her arrival he handed her a 20-dollar bill. She’d walk across the street and come back with one coconut donut, his favorite, and one chocolate, hers, and two cups of coffee. Walter attended Oregon Health and Science University in Portland, Oregon. And so did the 78 year old, Dr. Hughes, the only general practitioner MD in Canyonville. They both knew each other while at school. Walter studied pharmacy and interned and worked for 20 years in Portland pharmacies. The notion of owning his own pharmacy had always been a very appealing proposition. Dr Hughes who was born in Canyonville interned and worked for a major hospital in Portland for a couple of years, then returned to practice medicine in his hometown. Years later he alerted Walter on the availability of a local pharmacy.
Walter also saw the ad in a pharmaceutical magazine— pharmacy for sale in Canyonville, Oregon, a charming small town nestled in a valley where friendliness was the character of its long-time community. With such an enticing ad, along with his friend’s recommendation, he couldn’t pass up this opportunity. He had a good shot at it with the little that he needed to invest, and it seemed, there were no other takers. There weren’t many pharmacists who wanted to spend their lives isolated in such a small town where the chance of making a lot of money is limited. But this didn’t discourage him. With his wife’s salary as a teacher and their frugal lifestyle, it wouldn’t have been difficult to live a good life and build a nest egg in the process. This was 15 years ago, and so he became the proud owner of his drugstore in Canyonville, in rural Oregon, that he named Walter Drugs. Walter was an energetic man, content with his life and happy with his long-time marriage to Norma. He thrived being around and serving people especially in this small community where he knew most by name, and they called him Doc. He had a genuine interest in their well-being, grieving their misfortunes and celebrating their successes. He thought of them as part of his extended family. When they were sick and he filled their prescriptions, he felt he was a significant part of their recovery. He always followed up the next day with a phone call. “How is Joe doing?” he would ask. They appreciated his concern and took him as their confidant even in other matters. They loved to visit with him when he wasn’t busy as he was a good listener who appreciated their friendship. He loved to see the kids come to the store after school hours to read the comics off his magazine rack for free. He gave each of them a piece of bubble gum. He knew their parents and their grandparents. He would tell his wife with a smile, “I don’t think I will ever retire unless I find it’s time to be in a nursing home sitting in a chair drooling and biding my time to meet my savior.” She always left the store at five o’clock, an hour before closing. It was rarely busy at that time and Walter was comfortable being the pharmacist as well as the clerk. Now, back by the pharmacy, “Good night, Walter, see you tomorrow,” she said and walked out of the drugstore. Left alone, Walter looked at his watch; 5:15. He went to the checkout counter by the front door, retrieved the extra cash, placed it in the zippered green bag and went back to the pharmacy, to the safe by his desk. His arthritic fingers turned the dial—30 degrees R, 40 degrees L, 20 degrees R—an easy combination. He pressed the handle. Click. The steel door unlocked. He placed the bag on the top shelf for Betty to deposit next morning at the US bank across the street. He checked the inventory of Schedule I narcotics in the tray on the bottom shelf and
Then he saw two strangers approach the store and the bell at the door chimed as they entered. For some reason, for the first time, the muffled tone of the chime gave him an eerie feeling. Both were the same height, around 5 feet 7, and both in their 20’s. They wore heavy coats, and with disheveled hair and stubble on their faces, they looked like they had been sleeping in their van for a while. One had sandy hair, a scruffy look, and droopy, watery eyes. He appeared agitated and kept his hands in his pockets, looking straight ahead as if he had not noticed the man behind the pharmacy counter and headed straight for the figurine and knickknack shelves in the back of the store by the storage room. The other had slick black hair, an olive complexion, and a scar above his right eyebrow. He had piercing dark eyes that seemed to look through you rather than at you. He went to the magazine rack, pulled out a serrated jackknife, and began picking grime from under his fingernails. He hardly looked at the magazines. Walter glanced at his watch; 5:55. He stepped down from the pharmacy and went to the checkout counter. “It’s pretty damp out there,” he said in a friendly voice, addressing the man standing close to the magazine rack. The man shot him a glance. “Is there something I can help you with?” Walter asked. He sensed the terse look the man gave him as if he was irritated by the question. He folded the knife and placed it in his coat pocket and slowly walked toward the counter, his eyes fixed on Walter. He placed a 20-dollar bill on the glass counter but kept his fingers on the bill. Walter noted the grime on the man’s tattooed fingers. He averted his eyes, fearful that the man would detect the uneasiness he felt. “Beechnut,” the man said. Walter placed the chewing tobacco on the counter and rang up $3.75. The man kept tapping his fingers on the bill, looking straight at Walter. Walter glanced at the $20. No way would he attempt to retrieve it from under the man’s fingers. Trying to be casual, he asked, “Are you fellows staying here for the night or just passing through?” The man pulled his hand off the bill. “Passing through,” he said, sliding it toward Walter. While Walter counted the change, with a quick glance he noticed that the other man hadn’t moved from where he stood by the figurine shelves, still with his hands in his pockets. The man pocketed the change, walked back to the magazine rack, and looked at the magazine covers but didn’t pick up any. He took out the jackknife from his coat pocket and again, unhurried, commenced to pick out black grime from under his nails. Walter looked at his watch. It was eight minutes past six. “Let me know if there is anything else I can help you with. We close at six,” he said, trying his utmost not to reveal his anxiety.
The sharp look the man gave Walter was unnerving. He abruptly swung in the direction of the other man, “Let’s go,” he hollered. They walked out of the drugstore slowly without a word to one another. He watched them enter the van. Walter locked the door, and walked to the storage room, picked up his coat, put it on, then turned off the lights except for the one florescent light he usually kept on. Out of the storage room, he stood for a minute and glanced at the parking lot. The van hadn’t moved. What shall I do? Call Jackson? Uneasiness? Fear? Yes, he was afraid. What would Jackson do? The last thing Walter wanted was to cause trouble or antagonize anyone. Then the back-up lights came on, and the van slowly pulled out of the parking lot. Walter started the engine and turned on his headlights. At the street he hesitated. He looked left and right for passing vehicles; his eyes also scanned the street for parked cars. It was foggy but clear enough to notice a few that he recognized and others that he did not. Across the street at the coffee shop, he could see a few familiar souls, huddled over coffee and in friendly conversation. He eased into the street. There was hardly any traffic. Driving wasn’t something he enjoyed at his age. In fact, he dreaded driving at night. When the weather was nice, he was happy to walk the eight-blocks to his home. A short distance from his store, in the rearview mirror, headlights of a car approaching flashed in his eyes. He hated that, and it always distracted him. He gripped the steering wheel and slowed down hoping the car would pass. But it didn’t. “Come on. Pass, for god’s sake,” he muttered, getting agitated. He speeded back up to 25 miles per hour, and so did the car behind him. He turned on to the next side street hoping to get that driver off his back. He figured he would go around the block, get back to the main road, and continue on home. On the side street it was pitch dark. He concluded the other car must have gone straight through, and he relaxed. Then the headlights showed in his mirror again. He stiffened, blood rushing through his veins. Could it be a coincidence or am I reading too much into this? Walter’s apprehension soared. He had never been one to be paranoid. Yes, driving often made him agitated, but tonight he wasn’t himself. Could it be due to the uneasiness he felt earlier in the presence of the two men? He made another right turn and slowed down, looking in the rear view mirror. The car must have gone through. What’s the matter with me? I am no coward. He returned to the main street and headed home, parked the car in the driveway, and entered his two-bedroom house. Norma, getting dinner set up at the dining table, heard him come in.
“Norma... ” he said suddenly, “You have been lax in leaving the doors unlocked when you are here alone. We should be careful.” “In this town?” She squinted at him. “Things have changed; this town is growing. We can’t complain about that,” he said, “More and more I see new faces. It’s not the same anymore.” “Walter, I’ve been thinking. You and I have been working too hard, and not much fun is going on in our lives. What do you say we take a trip this summer?” “A trip? Where?” “Anywhere, just to get out of here for a change.” “It may be difficult to get a relief pharmacist in this area, especially in summer.” “You did get old man Charley What’s-his-name when you had your hernia operation.” “By the way, about Charley, I forgot to tell you. He passed away a year ago.” “Talk to the drug salesmen, then. They will find someone reliable.” “I think I am going to bed,” he said. In the bathroom mirror, he looked at his face for a minute. “It’s nothing, and I need to forget about it,” he thought. “They were passing through. I probably wouldn’t recognize them even if I saw them again.” The next morning Walter woke up early, his usual time, went to the kitchen to make coffee, then to the bathroom to shave before Norma woke up. At the table, they sat across from each other eating their cornflakes and drinking their coffee. “I still think you should tell Jackson about those guys. Something must have bothered you about them.” “Norma, let it go. There is no reason to call the guy. I’m sorry I mentioned it,” he said, “I bet they are miles away from here. It’s a growing town, and I need to get used to seeing strangers come and go. It’s not like the old times anymore when everyone you saw was a familiar face.” Walter parked his Corolla at his usual spot. He walked back to the street and looked up and down at the parked cars. Across the street at the coffee shop, he saw familiar faces having their morning coffee. Lilly passed by walking her poodle. “Good morning, Lilly, how is Edgar
doing?” “Much better. Thanks for asking, Walter. I’ll tell him you asked.” He unlocked the door and entered. Even in the dimly lit space seeing his well-stocked fixtures in row after row had always given him self-satisfaction, a feeling of accomplishment and pride. He hesitated for a minute, listening. He had never noticed the hum of his small fridge behind the pharmacy counter where he stored the insulin and other injectable vials, or the sound of his shoes shuffling over the cement floor, or the intermittent snapping of the one florescent light he kept on overnight. Sounds that had escaped him before now were inexplicably amplified. His eyes went to the magazine rack. The magazines were always as expected—in disarray. Betty will take care of that. She always does. The man had stood by the magazine rack, Walter remembered. He didn’t seem to be looking at the magazine at all. Was he getting unreasonably paranoid? He had aged so much within the last few years, he admitted. Passing his pharmacy, he remembered the narcotic order. Betty will mail it when she takes the cash to the bank. How lucky I am to have her , he thought. One of these days I am going to lose her. He heard her talk to one of her friends about Colorado Springs and the retiree community in that town, where she eventually would love to retire. No need to worry about that until it happens , he thought. It may just be talk. She has lived here all her life, and he couldn’t see her going anywhere. Walking back to the storage room, his eyes went to the figurines. He remembered the man hanging around, looking at what? He wondered. That guy wasn’t the type to be interested in this kind of stuff. But he dismissed any conjecture on his part. He stepped into the back room. A freezing snap of wind and a laser of light knifed through the splintered door. The sliver of light plunged surroundings into menacing darkness. Stiffened, nauseous, Walter was unable to breathe, his chest collapsing like in a vise. Immobile, he stood as the whistling wind pierced his ears. For a few seconds, he stood, frozen, not daring to move his head or look around, fearful of what might lurk in the shadows. Then, he heard the chilling, menacing familiar voice whisper slowly and deliberately, close to his ear. “I want you to do something for me.” He knelt facing the safe; one man stood on each side towering over him. In desperation, his fingers quivered around the cold dial. Numbers swirled in his confused mind. He muddled through, moving the dial, L, R, L, R… erratically, to no avail. The steel door remained steadfast. The room spun around him. Remember. Remember. Think. Think. He prodded his memory, gripped with confusion. The sandy haired man leaned toward him, inches from his face, “Don’t act stupid, old man.” The chilling voice rang in his ear. The other man picked up an apothecary jar and casually twirled it in his hands. Walter’s trembling fingers moved the dial round and round, but the handle wouldn’t
