Pharmacy for the Soul

“I’d like a box of flesh-colored Band-aids for wounds that never heal,” I say to the pharmacist standing behind the counter. I’m speaking metaphorically, of course. I’m not visibly injured, nor would they sell such bandages, since the medical profession has long figured out how to stop any sort of bleeding in a matter of seconds.

 

I may not be visibly injured, but something is wrong with me - in me. This I don’t have to explain to the luminous angel of medicine behind the counter, because he knows. It is his job to know; he is programmed to know, to read, scan, and to analyze faces, gait, vocal patterns, breathing, and a myriad other small signs that can be matched with a vast database of psychological disorders. He will then match the diagnosis with the equally vast database of possible cures.

 

All this happens very quickly and quietly. It’s efficient, and does not require any “Please undress, breath in, say ‘Aaa’ lift your left arm and touch your right ear” stuff.  The luminous figure is smiling, but not an obvious smile that could be interpreted as derisive. Despite the half-smile, his face seems impassive, unmoving, and his gown is a blindingly bright robe of white light. My beady brow frowns enviously at his pale, spotless, dry skin. He looks perfect; I look human, all too human.

 

“Does he know Nietzsche?” I wonder - but just for a second. I don’t want to know Nietzsche, either - not now. But, I can’t unlearn what I already know. That’s why I am standing in front of this artificial man whose seeming perfection seems to mock me despite his best efforts.

 

“We have created machines that know us better than we do ourselves - so what does that mean?” This is exactly why my brow is beady: it’s these questions, these thoughts. The imitation standing patiently in front of me will never know the anguish of what it means to have a soul, and at this moment I’d trade lives with him.

 

How has it ever come to this? The one thing we could be proud of, the one thing we could hold up like a trophy has become a burden, a source of pain, like a tumor, like an alien body, an invisible, unnatural growth somewhere inside our flesh and bone body, feeding on our blood, our breath, our energy, making us go mad, turning us into walking, living dead bodies that wish they were dead.

 

“Try these,” he says, and places a small bottle on the counter. I take it, but before I could hold it up to the light to take a closer look I flinch as I feel something moving inside. How it’s possible I don’t know, but I feel it. I look quizzically at the pharmacist, but his face remains impassive. 

I don’t envy him so much now. He looks dumb wearing that same Buddha-like smile, looking at me with unfocused eyes. The bottle is filled with a thick, jelly-like substance, and there are words floating in the transparent liquid. “Relax, Surrender, Trust, Atone, Appreciate…” Words to be consumed daily. Words! I want to laugh.

 

“Take a dose once daily before you go to bed. Be advised that possible side effects include drowsiness, dry mouth, headaches, nausea, insomnia, suicidal thoughts, abnormal heart rhythms, sweating, mood swings, and, in very rare cases, death." 

When I look at his face again, his smile is gone, and his cold, mechanical eyes are focusing like camera lenses so that he can look me in my frightened, confused, frantic human eyes, and speak to me directly. I’m startled, but I can’t break eye contact. With absolute precision and determination, he swiftly grabs hold of my hand and pulls me closer so that we are only inches away from each other. I am breathing into his open mouth, and I wonder if he can detect smells, or if he's analyzing the chemical imbalances in my body, or the contents of my stomach, or the nature of my half-digested thoughts that float around in my mind. 

 

“I’ll take it,” I say feebly, giving the bottle a little shake. He doesn’t seem to hear me, and keeps boring his now pin-sized pupils into my core, and I'm sure he's equipped with a program that can scan souls.

 

“The pain you experience is due to your lack of words to express, describe and therefore comprehend what it means to be human. Take a dose of this medicine once daily. It'll help you to write yourself into a cocoon made of papier-mâché, ink, duct tape and glue - a hard shell for the heart you wore on your sleeve like a fool for too long. What you once were will be atomized, your old self liquefied, analyzed, purified, and redesigned. There is not enough love and goodness in the world to permit giving any of it away to imaginary beings. Throw off your discontent about your nature. Forgive yourself your own self. You have it in your power to merge everything you have lived through - false starts, errors, delusions, passions, your loves and your hopes - into your goal, with nothing left over[1].”

 

When he is done, he lets go of my hand, and the Buddha-like smile returns to his face. His eyes become unfocused, and he greets a new customer that just entered the Pharmacy for the Soul.

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[1] “There is not enough love…with nothing left over.” Quote taken from Friedrich Nietzsche's Human, All Too Human: A Book for Free Spirits.

Reviews

[barleygirl]

This is stupendous pondering . . . forget the well-crafted writing used to get it across to the masses who don't ponder much beyond the obvious. Upon meeting your fake pharmacist, I caught strong waves of that incredulous recognition one gets imagining the alternate reality in "Handmaid's Tale" (old TV series).

But then your subtle complexities got me thinking about Ted Kniffen's dual-installment poetic rant about electric self-driving cars, not becuz he's against progress (he sold Ford parts all his life), but becuz so many machines are replacing humans with artificial intelligence, thus eliminating the nuisance of dealing with people & their foibles. So handy to have a convenient virus which has further stigmatized the inconvenience of dealing with flesh-and-blood interactions.

Despite these profound mind-wanders while I was reading, my overwhelming interpretation would be as a spoof on all those who down fifteen different prescription meds with a flourish every day, making sure others see their slavish devotion to modern medicine. I have nothing against seeking medicine when something dire needs fixing, but in my often-out-there opinion, half the problem with our healthcare crisis in this country is becuz people want medicine to fix every little annoyance they may feel, not to mention the six or seven disorders that half the population seems to love to list for our awe & amusement in every conversation. Sorry, your piece tripped my switch (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Laz K.]

Thank you very much for reading and commenting. I enjoyed reading your thoughts immensely!

[John the Baptist]

I know the pharmacist is a programmed angel, but there is something about him that makes me think of Arnold Schwarzenegger as "The Terminator." It might be the iron grip with which he holds the speaker as he regurgitates his programmed diagnosis and treatment suggestions. I just wouldn't be comfortable asking him for a pack of condoms.

[Delmar Cooper]

That was amazing stuff. I'm glad I read it, so nice to see an actual Writer in this place. I love this place, the comfort of the herd where each sheep warms the next and the outliers migrate ever inward to the safety of the group. Is it cold out there? On the edge, I mean. I'd like to visit there one day.

[Laz K.]

Thanks, Delmar, for reading and commenting.