Memories of a Drugstore
July 8, 2017
ALAN writes:
My first job was as a clerk in a corner drugstore. Most of the people with whom I worked are gone now, and the drugstore was demolished more than 35 years ago. It was locally owned and operated. It was one of a kind. Not a trace of it remains. There is no historic plaque reading: “On this corner stood the only drugstore in downtown St. Louis that was open all day, all night, every day of the year for 62 years.”
It was in some ways a relic from a time when Americans had some understanding of proportion, form, and function. It had one purpose: To offer prescription medicine and sundries. It catered to ordinary, unpretentious people, most of them working class, some of them poor, most of them middle age or older.
There was a steady stream of customers and prescriptions, but the soda fountain/lunch counter kept the store afloat. The floor was white ceramic tile. The store had glass display cases with marble foundations. Pharmacists filled prescriptions on the catwalk-balcony.
It was not a fun house. We did not sell toys, tires, or beach balls. The only sound was that of conversations at the lunch counter or sales counter and the bell on the cash registers. It was never annoying. You could hear yourself think. Try that today in the midst of the noise absurdly called “music” that large chain drugstores love to inflict on their customers. Mercifully, it was long before the cell phone was invented. We had one pay telephone for customers. On one wall were dozens of shelves and small wooden cabinet drawers. Candy, cigars, and cigarettes were always in demand. We sold Fatima cigarettes, Velvet tobacco in tins, and Bull Durham tobacco in the pouch. We had “Prince Albert in the can”, and thoughtful people would phone in to say we should let him out.
To borrow a line spoken by Margaret Sullavan to James Stewart in “The Shop Around the Corner” (1940), I was an “insignificant little clerk”.
When I worked in the basement, my only companions were the mice. One day a pharmacist and I were standing down there talking. One of our mice was unaccounted for and we were concerned.
I delivered prescription medicine to elderly residents who lived in tall apartment buildings nearby. There were no locked doors in my path, I needed no push-button security code, and I never had to justify my presence. All I had to do was walk through the entry door and to the elevator. And Americans today think they are “free”. Self-deluded fools. There is no better guarantee of arrogance than ignorance of the past.
The midnight shift was quiet and uneventful. We sold and served no liquor. There were no security guards at the drugstore because none were needed. There were no spy cameras in the store and no bars on its door or windows. I never saw more than one police officer in the store, and he came in every evening to talk with the pharmacist or the cashier. Read More »