Mondays with Mike: On the last day of 2020, a prescription for the soul

I had the week after Christmas off,  and I took advantage of it by spending a few nights at Starved Rock State Park. I needed some nature time outside the city, and Beth needed me to have nature time outside our condo.

We’re together a lot in these times.

As I finished packing on the day of my departure, I ran through my myriad pills and discovered I’d run out of one of my prescriptions while I was away. I booked a refill and picked it up around noon.

Would you like a bag?” the pharmacist asked. I said no, and stuffed the prescription into my right jacket pocket.

On the way back I stopped at the market for something that Beth needed, and I stuffed it in the other jacket pocket.

I got home, gave Beth her stuff, picked up my rental car, threw my bags in the car, and I was off. About an hour out, I visualized the two books I wanted to bring with me…sitting on the ottoman at home. Which is where they still are.

About the same time, my phone lit up—I didn’t recognize the number, and besides, I was driving, so I didn’t pick up. When I stopped for a break, I checked my voicemail. I hit the play button and heard a gravelly voice and dialect reminiscent of Louis Armstrong. Between the audio limitations of his cell phone and my cell phone, it was difficult to understand what he said, but I heard the word “prescriptions.”

I figured it was a wrong number until I checked into the lodge and unpacked. I reached into my pocket to put my new prescriptions into my toiletries bag and…no prescriptions. Uh oh. Finally the light bulb went off: Lloyd, who’d left the message, had found my prescriptions. I hoped, anyway.

I called back, but the voicemail said leave a message for a woman named Pat. I went ahead and left a message, and within minutes I got a call back. It was Lloyd again, and this time we could hear each other better. He had indeed found my prescriptions and he wanted to know how to get it back to me.

I learned two things: My jacket pockets aren’t deep enough to hold anything much more than a glove. And, for better or worse, every prescription has my phone number and home address. And a stranger now had both.

One thing to know about our Walgreens: It’s at a hub of the elevated Orange and Green Lines, and to the Red Line subway. It’s also a major bus hub. And so, an assortment of what my parents used to call “characters” congregate on Roosevelt. It’s never threatening, but I’ve taken to calling it the Star Wars Cantina. It’s a bit of a gauntlet to walk through with guys selling loose cigarettes and panhandlers.

And  I’m thinking, Lloyd’s one of those characters. And I got worried until…I realized that this man could’ve thrown my prescriptions in the trash. But he took the trouble to call me on his grandmother’s phone. And I felt a little remorse for thinking, even for a moment, the worst.

I thought about asking Lloyd to bring the prescriptions back to the store, but really, I wanted to thank him personally. So, we greed to meet Thursday, the day I returned, at the Walgreens entrance.

That morning I called to confirm that we’d meet at 1 pm. “I’m taking the train,” Lloyd said. “I’ll call you when I come up the steps from the Red Line.”

I went early to grab another scrip at the drugstore—this time I said yes to the bag.  I hung out outside, watching street life. I eyeballed the Red Line stairs and eventually a heavy-set guy with a phone in his hand emerged from underground.

My phone rang and I waved to him without picking up the call.

He walked toward me with a slight limp. As he approached, he said, “Mike?”

“Yeah, Lloyd?”

We broke the rules and shook hands.

I thanked him profusely—and it was sincere. For one, I needed the pills—I was out. For another, it was a three-month supply. So, if I circled back and the insurance wouldn’t pay, I’d be out a fair amount of cash. And finally, the guy went out of his way for me.

He handed me my prescriptions, which I immediately put into the bag I’d gotten from my latest pickup.

And I handed him an envelope to thank him for his time and effort, something he’d not asked for.

And that was that. We said goodbyes and exchanged Happy New Years. I walked north, and he walked around the corner, headed to the Star Wars Cantina on Roosevelt.