ESSAY

I visited the pharmacy.  The boy was new.  He was handsome, and he was nervous, trying to be a very good pharmacy technician.

     “I have some prescriptions.  My doctor called them in.  They’re under Jill deYoe, or they may be under Laurie Barrett.  I recently changed my name.”

     He punched keys on the computer like he was ordering up a nuclear strike.  “I found you.  Do you live on Russell Street?”

     “That’s me.”  He looked relieved.  He said he had to change my data over from the Laurie account to the Jill account to activate my insurance under that name.  I said I’d shop for a while.

     This was in a huge warehouse-like store we have in these parts.  I went to the other side of the place and looked at appliances.  People still buy waffle irons.  After a while I went back.

     “All set,” he said, beaming.

     “Good job!” I told him.  I gave him a big smile.  He was cute.  He rang the stuff up.  He’d had to see my prescriptions for hormones and testosterone inhibitors and antidepressants, and he’d had to realize my story and who and what I am.  “I’m sorry for the delay,” he told me, suddenly the nervous new pharm tech again.

     “That’s no problem, ” I said.  “You change your name and the whole world changes.”

     His face lit up.  “It must be exciting,” he said.

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