Paul Kohler - The Borrowed Souls, A Novel

Hanging up, I contemplated walking the dozen blocks to the pharmacy but decided against it. As my luck was going, I would get mugged halfway there and miss the tow-truck driver completely. I might even get run over on the way back, I mused. No, no. I waited, sitting on the hood of my car instead. Besides, it was still sweltering out, and walking nearly a mile on the concrete paths of the city didn’t remotely appeal to me.

Nearly an hour later, my wait was rewarded by a balding tow - truck driver smelling of stale cigars and burnt motor oil.

“Darn good to meetcha’,” he said, pumping my hand a little too aggressively. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Darn thing won’t start. I think the battery might be dead, but it just ran a few hours ago,” I explained to the overweight man as he popped the hood.

“Well, let’s take a look-see,” he said as he leaned in near the engine, scrutinizing every part of the grease-covered compartment. “Wanna jump in and give it a try?”

I hopped behind the wheel and turned over the ignition. Nothing happened.

“Go ahead, try and start it,” the driver said again.

I turned the ignition back to off and then forward again. Nothing.

“Are you turning the key all the way over?” he asked impatiently.

“I am. I tried it several times just as you asked,” I replied, nearing the end of my patience.

“OK, hold on a sec,” he said as he jiggled some hoses and wires along the side of the engine compartment. As he did so, I could see sparks fly from under the hood, and the dome light came to life.

“Give it a go,” he hollered, still bent over under the hood.

I turned the key to start, and the engine roared to life. “Hurray!” I called out in excitement.

“Looks like you’ve got a frayed wire leading to the starter. I got ‘er fixed for now, but it’ll need replacin’ soon,” said the driver, wiping his hands on a dirty rag hanging out of his side pocket.

“I’ll get on that this weekend. What do I owe you?” I asked as I shut the hood.

“Eh, the normal cost for a jump is ninety-five. I really only charge for jumps or tows, but I gotta call this in. Let those that make more than me decide,” he said as he climbed into his tow truck.

After several more minutes discussing things on his CB, he popped out with his clipboard in hand.

“Looks like they want me to charge you for the jump anyway. I tried to argue with ‘em that it really wasn’t a jump, but I lost that battle. You got cash or do you wanna put it on a card?”

“I suppose it makes sense. Here, put it on this,” I said, handing him my personal credit card.

“Give me a sec. I’ll call it in.” He once again disappeared into the cab of his truck only to reappear moments later. “There seems to be a problem with your card here. Got another to try?”

I didn’t have the time or the patience for another problem today. “What kind of problem? The card should be paid up and have plenty of room on it.”

“Don’t know. They jus’ said it was declined,” he replied, standing close enough that I could smell what could either be rotten eggs or incredibly offensive body odor.

“OK, give this one a try. I know it’s good,” I said, handing him my corporate card. With the awful day I was having, it was the least Pearlman could do for me. Either that or I’d be fired for abusing company resources.

Five minutes later, the driver returned with a slip for me to sign and a copy of the invoice. I thanked him again, but he wordlessly climbed back into his truck and sped away.

I jumped into the car and blasted the AC before pulling out into the afternoon traffic. I turned up Eighth Avenue and headed toward the pharmacy. Thankfully, traffic was far less hectic than it was that morning or at lunch. I contemplated leaving early every day, just to avoid the traffic. I chuckled at the far-fetched notion, knowing good and well it would never happen.

Ten minutes later I pulled into the parking lot of the pharmacy and found the last parking space available. I left the engine running as I went in to pick up Cyndi’s prescription, thinking I would need to call for a jump again otherwise.

Once inside, I fully understood why the lot was full. There was a line at the pharmacist’s counter much longer than the line for Pearlman’s lunch. I moved to the back of the line and waited. The line moved at a snail’s pace, and if I hadn’t left work early, I would not have stayed. But as it was only 2:45, I had plenty of time.

Thankfully, another pharmacist opened a second register and half the people in line moved to equalize the wait. The pregnant woman behind me nearly plowed me over to get into the other lane. I graciously stepped aside. Who am I kidding? I let her over there so she would stop bumping into me with her enormous belly. Seriously, don’t people know what personal bubbles are these days?

With the line reduced by half, I progressed to the counter in no time at all. I handed the prescription over and he entered a few things into the computer. A moment later, he handed it back to me and looked at me quizzically.

“Uh, I need to see your ID before I can fill this,” he stated.

I slid my driver’s license across the counter. The clerk compared it to his screen.

“Hmm. I don’t think I can give you this,” he said with a confused look.

“Excuse me? You can’t give it to me why?” I asked, trying to hold in my rapidly-approaching anger.

“Yeah, the prescription is for oxycodone with acetaminophen. That’s a narcotic, and I’m only supposed to give it to the person on the prescription. Your license says you are Jack Duffy, and the prescription’s for Cyndi Duffy.”

“Ah, I see. Cyndi is my wife. I’m picking it up for her,” I replied as calmly as possible. I could feel my anger inching ever closer to the surface.

“Like I said, you’re not Cyndi, so I can’t give this to you.”

“But she’s my wife. See, look at my license. We even have the same address. I don’t see what the problem is here. I’ve picked up prescriptions for her in the past.”

“The problem? How do I know these pills will even make it to her after I give them to you?” the clerk asked.

“Listen, Clint,” I stated, reading his name tag, “I’ve had very bad day. If you don’t find a grown-up back there that can help you out with this, I am going to get pissed. In fact, I might even become irate. NOW FIX THIS!” I yelled, attracting the attention of everyone in line as well as the pharmacist at the other counter.

Clint jumped and took a step back as I barked my orders. He moved to the other pharmacist and the two whispered momentarily. He then disappeared in the stacks of medicines behind them. Moments later, he returned and slid a puffy white envelope across the counter to me along with my driver’s license.

“Great. What do I owe you?” I asked, relieved not to be thrown out for making a scene.

“Your insurance covers medication copays,” he replied, then he looked at the person behind me. “Next?”

I know I shouldn’t have, but I gave Clint the finger as I turned and walked out. It’s the little things that help the day move along.

When I stepped back outside, it was getting hotter. I looked at my watch and saw that is was now past three. With any luck, I would make it home by three-thirty, two hours before I normally got home. With that amount of time, I should be able to get in a nap and then maybe cook dinner for Cyndi before she got home.

After a few minutes of silence, I looked over to the old man. In addition to the frown lines between his eyes, his eyebrows were now furrowed with concern.

“Is there something you’re not telling me? You seem to know me, and the recounting of my day hasn’t really…”