[Guest Post] Fucked in Park Slope, A One Month Retrospective

photo: Pardon Me For AskingQuincy M. sent us this one month "I just moved to Park fucking Slope" retrospective, and I thought it was pretty damn funny slash craz-ay. Check it:

I transplanted to Park Slope from somewhere irrelevant exactly one month ago today, and I mostly love it.

Everyone is really fucking chipper and welcoming, which is somewhat surprising since it’s winter in New York and I vaguely expected people to be sour and douchey. Not that those traits aren’t applicable the rest of the year too, but the Northeastern winter is a special kind of bitch. And as you all know, February hasn’t been great, as a series of hyperbolically-named snowstorms have assaulted the city one after another. The neighborhood kids love it, though, especially when their suckers for parents drag them on sleds down the street.

One said kid had the audacity to throw a snowball at me mid-smoke during last week's 'snowpocalypse.' And the little fucker was accurate, too. He knocked the cigarette straight from my mouth without so much as an apology. Maybe it was a sign from the universe that it’s time to quit. Who am I kidding? My girlfriend offered to fellate me every day for a year if I quit and I didn’t even think about it for a second.

Anyway, I haven’t really had any other noteworthy shit happen until yesterday. While accompanying my aforementioned other half to refill her birth control prescription at the CVS on 9th (which is an important activity because, you know, birthing another child into this fucking neighborhood would be irresponsible on multiple levels), there was an incident involving a senile senior couple that seemed like an Ambien-induced hallucination.

The pharmacy line was long, even for a Saturday afternoon, and there was a fucking moron working the counter. He was about 50 with the body of an adolescent boy. His eyes were small and jumpy, and looked out of place in his otherwise rangy face. After 30 minutes in line, we were still four-deep with no sign of a closer coming from the break room for a two-out save. I was getting anxious under the bright dullness of the fluorescent lights, and so was the woman right behind my girl. She was old, like at least in her sixties. She wore a Tar Heel-blue beanie, large, white-rimmed glasses, and a stare that would have startled psychopaths. She twitched mildly at first, and then started picking various things off the ground and asking my girl if they belonged to her. How much shit can be randomly left on the ground in a line at a pharmacy, I thought.

Enter stage left a fat man in blue overalls. To woman: “Jesus fucking Christ, honey. What the hell is taking so goddamn long?” He would definitely have to buy an extra seat on the airplane, I thought.

“This imbecile behind the counter is incapable of doing his job,” she said, carefully, as not to curse.

“Well, where is the fucking manager in this goddamn place? I’d like a word,” he yelled through wheezing breaths in the general direction of the gaunt woman named Mary behind the adjacent counter, who was ostensibly doing nothing during this whole ordeal.

She shrugged, and he wobbled out of view toward the front of the store. His wife started a calculated breathing technique, as if her on-call shrink had coached her how to cope during situations exactly like this one. I glanced at my girlfriend, who couldn’t help but giggle, and realized that the sick fuck inside of me hoped that upon the man’s return, a shit storm would rain down near aisle five.

At the 45 minutes mark, we’d made some progress and found ourselves next in line. But the man in front of us had a stack of prescriptions, each with a different story and a different doctor. The Lorazepam wasn’t covered by insurance, the pharmacist told him. The woman freaked.

She leapt on the counter, flopping wildly as her hands searched for the pharmacist’s neck. Garbled screams escaped her mouth as she missed the pharmacist and landed hard on the other side. She clutched her doctor’s note high in the air and begged for someone to give her the pills. Re-enter husband with the store’s manager in tow.

“Honey! Honey! Don’t touch her you sonofabitch,” he said before opening a bottle of water and spraying it various directions.

“Sir,” the manager said. “I’m gonna have to ask you and your wife to leave or I’m gonna have to call the cops.”

“Call the cops! I dungivashit!”

At that moment, Mary took the note from grannie’s hand. She raised her voice and said calmly, “M’aam. Sir. I’m sorry to say but we ran out of Viagra this morning.”

The crowd of people that had found their way toward the scuffle let out a collective cheer. I looked at my girlfriend and thought that if this event is indicative of being Fucked in Park Slope, I could be settling in for a nice long stay.