It was pouring and freezing yesterday. I had a mountain of errands to do, and had to drop off a prescription at the drug store. (Controlled Substance—has to be done in person.) I go to the fanciest drug store on the Upper West Side as it accepts insurance, and then goads you into not buying the incredible candles, skin care products, and other expensive sundries. I’ve been going to this pharmacy for seven years and love it since they treat people like human beings unlike the chains.
Had the headache from hell. My sinuses can’t take this much rain and they were letting me know it’s time to leave for a drought area. Usually I wait the fifteen minutes until the prescription’s ready but the rain had turned into drizzles and I knew that it was only a matter of minutes until it began pouring again. I asked for a delivery. It was about noon.
I went home to my building that once was homey, but in the seven years since I bought my apartment has become a big deal. Translation for non Manhattanites—the new doormen all speak English as a first language and cater to the people who pay the most for their apartments.
Our new day doorman is bright, witty and I like him. But he claims he’s been ringing my intercom and I don’t answer. Somehow I don’t have this problem with any of the old doormen who do the late afternoon, night and weekend shifts.
I told the doorman that I was expecting a delivery from the pharmacy. My head was crying out for sleep and Advil; but I stayed awake so that I would absolutely hear the intercom. Became immersed in some activities, and then looked at the clock. It was 5:40. Called the late afternoon/evening doorman, who said that nothing had arrived for me. Called the pharmacy; they said it had been delivered at 1:40 and somebody named “Tony†had signed for it. Knew that was impossible as nobody who works in the building is named Tony and told them so. They didn’t believe me.
Went downstairs and had the doorman look for the package. There was one delivery for somebody, not me, who lives three stories up in an apartment with the same letter—12 D. Called the pharmacy back. Didn’t want to get into an argument, but they were pushing my buttons. However they finally agreed to call the deliveryman who they said had signed off from his shift and might not be reachable.
He hadn’t signed off from his shift as his delivery truck had collided with a garbage truck. I just happened to be the first person to call and complain as I had been waiting the longest. Two hours later my prescription arrived. I could finally change into my PJ’s, turn on the TV and watch DVR’d episodes of TV shows.
Why couldn’t I have changed into my PJ’s sooner and watched TV while waiting? Couldn’t be too comfortable least I fall asleep and not hear the intercom. Couldn’t put on the TV or music for the same reason.
Realize how insane this sounds but this is Manhattan and my building owns me. When I first moved in I was on the must be catered to, paid good money list, but now I’m way down on the list. One of my big responsibilities in life is to make the building staffs lives easier. Don’t ask; that’s just the way it is here.
