The Elmwood Pharmacy, despite no longer serving in any official capacity as a repository for drugs, still acted as the nexus for Malden’s most sickly and impoverished residents. The Walgreens four blocks over may have taken Elmwood’s prescriptions, but the corporate overlords had yet to wrap their minds around the more subtle influence of scratch tickets and cheap french fries.
It was by the age-old combination of lottery, cigarettes, and bad food that old brick and mortars managed to survive alongside the new apartment complexes and supermarkets that continuously sprouted and asserted their dominion over the city’s urban nucleus. Elmwood clung low and desperately to the earth like a furtive slug, and it was easily one of the most loathsome structures still standing within view of the commuter rail. The rare travelers that noticed Elmwood at all have been known to say that the property would be better served by a Starbucks, or perhaps even a Subway. The place was generally despised, especially by its regulars, and it was only when faced with the dangerous end of a robber’s pistol that Kilgore J. Cohen, third inheritor and proprietor of the Elmwood legacy, realized that the whole place should have been sold off or burnt to the ground ago.
“Give me all the money,” said the robber, his voice cracking a little on the last word.
Kilgore with a mind stunted by years of cash register-induced apathy could barely muster the degree of emotion necessary for fear. “Of course,” he said, “I would think of doing nothing else.”
Simple compliance. The robber’s relief was palpable. He allowed his pistol to settle on the counter. Kilgore quickly concluded that he was dealing with an amateur, and he was surprised to find that, rather than relief and determination, he was actually very disappointed. The robber seemed to smile gingerly beneath the scraggly sock that concealed his face, like an idiot. Yes, Kilgore thought, only an idiot would rob Elmwood these days. This latest disappointment in a long life marked by small but consistent disappointments triggered a wave of nostalgia and despair that consumed Kilgore’s mind.
In the sixty-year history of the Elmwood Pharmacy, a robbery had only been attempted once before, and that was during the days when real prescriptions and not just a few bottles of Ibuprofen lined the store’s back shelves. It was a story told to the children at Passover of the time when the heroic uncle Albert went toe to toe with a fentanyl-crazed, gun-toting lunatic. As the legend goes, Albert calmly talked the gunman down and convinced him that he needed to grab the drugs from the back. Uncle Albert returned brandishing a rifle and threatening to blow the maniac’s brains out. This happened in broad daylight during a time when Elmwood was flush with chatter and the regulars that didn’t smell like homelessness. Back then, there was no need to stock Chinese newspapers or instant noodle. The vintage soda machine used to get cleaned polished weekly, and it didn’t screech.
The robber drummed his fingers against the register and drew Kilgore from his delirium.
“Yes, yes. Sorry.”
“No problem.”
Kilgore opened the register and laid some small bills and a stack of quarters on the counter. Then he tried something.
“We don’t keep much in the register anymore,” he said. “Most customers use EBT these days.” The robber nodded solemnly, as if he too had forced himself through five years of pharmaceutical school so he could inherit a bloated convenience store from his father during the middle of a recession. “Got more cash in the back. Want a scratch ticket?”
“That’d be nice actually, thanks.”
Kilgore peeled one of the more expensive tickets off the role and handed it to the robber.
“Got any cartons of Marlboros? Lights please, I don’t smoke the other kind.”
“Ya, give me a minute.” Kilgore hefted himself up the steps into the back of the store, which was really more of a raised mezzanine overlooking the register. He allowed his eyes to sweep the rows of dusty shelving and filing cabinets before settling on a cracked countertop where, just two decades ago, pills were bottled in-house.
A second wave of nostalgia almost debilitated him, but Kilgore weathered the torrent and fumbled under the countertop for a pair of forgotten buttons. He was not exactly sure how it worked, or if it ever did, but the button to the right apparently phoned the police. That is what his father once told him, anyway. The other button made an annoying buzzing sound at the food counter that Kilgore would have been beaten for playing with. He pressed the police button and continued toward a thin closet in the back corner of the store.
“Hey, you having a stroke back there? Hurry it up old man, I need to get moving!” Agitation grated against delight. The robber was almost giddy.
From the closet, Kilgore pulled a rusty metal case with a broken latch. He laid it on the countertop next to the stairs and called down to the robber, “I’ve got it here, it’s all right here.”
Kilgore unsheathed a handgun from the case. It was old, but immaculate. If uncle Albert’s rifle had really existed, this certainly wasn’t it. Was this one loaded? Kilgore didn’t know. It was heavier than he thought.
“What is that, what are you looking at?” Uncertainty was creeping into the robber’s voice now. “Bring the money down here!” The old man in the back of the store did not hear him.
“Yes, I’ve got it. It’s right here,” whispered Kilgore, and he was lost in another world.
(This is the latest version of a story idea that I have been rewriting for a few years now. The setting and story are based in fact. Earlier drafts are actually quite different from this one, so I will post them some day.)