Friday, September 25th, 2020

The pharmacy is mobbed. A crowd stands behind the line, brandishing the numbers they got from the machine when they came in. An increased lockdown starts later today. The shop will remain open, but people don’t want to count on it. That’s not surprising. The rules seem to change every few minutes, as the government’s Coronavirus Committee, the Ministry of Health, the Economics czars, and the full Knesset give conflicting signals. There are four pharmacists on duty, but people want them to move more quickly. A mechanized voice calls customer 132 to window number 4. Within seconds, a man near the front of the crowd yells “132? 132 isn’t here. 133? 134? Come on, it’s Friday! It’s Friday!” A voice on the overhead system finally announces “Sir, it is Friday for everyone. There is a line. Thank you.” After a while, number 148 is called. He yells “148? I48 is not here. I am 149. I need --” A much older woman comes up behind him and gently whacks him in the ankle with her cane. She shows him her number. 148. He grumbles, backs off, and hovers near the pharmacists’ windows, as if he is one of those people in American football who has to be ready to dart in any direction based on what the other team might do. 149 is called. He jumps to the next window. “One moment,” the pharmacist says. He shuffles some papers, consults with a colleague, opens and shuts the register drawer, then slowly turns to the customer. “Yes, sir, how may I assist you?” I am number 152. When I’m summoned to the window, I hand the pharmacist my number, my health provider ID card, my debit card, and the empty box of the prescription that I need refilled. He scans them as another worker reaches around him and plonks boxes of what I need onto the counter. I take them and start to wish him a good holiday. He is already shouting for the next customer. So be it. I make my way through the crowd. I have more groceries to get and a newsletter to complete. I can breathe later.