Assistance
I was barely inside the door of the pharmacy when the assistant descended on me like a hawk dropping out of the sun. The similarities didn’t end there. With head cocked strangely on one side, she regarded me with piercing eyes and jabbed at me with a harsh, shrill voice. ‘Can I help you?’ Shaken by the attack but trying to sound confident, I rebuffed her offer with a ‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ and quickly moved on into the depths of the shop. I felt her eyes on my back and knew I would have to head in a straight line to my destination or she’d swoop again. I strode purposefully forward, searching desperately for the bandaging and support section, but I saw it too late, faltering in the middle of the shop. I heard her white coat flapping and suddenly she was back beside me.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘It’s okay, I’ve got it,’ I responded, but she kept pace with me until we were both standing in front of the strapping tape.
‘What needs strapping?’ she asked, pushing her face into my field of vision.
‘My ankle,’ I replied, feeling my energy start to drain away with the pointlessness of the conversation. She launched into a presentation on the various brands available, undeterred by my assertion that I knew the one I was looking for. I tried to avoid her eyes and block out her voice and home in on the tape I was after, but suddenly, despite having used it for months, I wasn’t sure which one it was anymore. When I thought I had the right brand, the width eluded me. The assistant’s insistence that I needed help was starting to convince me of the fact and she seemed to feed on my confusion. In the end, she selected a roll of tape for me; the most expensive kind, but you can’t take chances with cheaper stuff, she advised, no matter how many times it has worked in the past. I tried to leave then but she cut me off, steering me with sharp vocal stabs over to the vitamin section because I was ‘so pale and listless’.
She plucked three jars of pills from the shelves with jerky, hypnotic movements, then grabbed something for the headache that she rightly surmised I was suffering. She helped me count out the notes from my wallet before guiding me to the door, which appeared as a vague shape, as if viewed through clouds.
Outside the shop, although my head immediately began to clear, I hesitated on the pavement just for a moment. She was there in an instant, asking me where I lived. As she took my arm, I noticed that she’d put her coat on over her work clothes. I started to tell her I was fine but we both knew I wasn’t.
This piece originally appeared in ‘The Big Issue’.
Bob Franklin is a Melbourne-based writer, comedian and actor. His first short story collection, ‘Under Stones’, published by Affirm Press, is out now. Series one and two of ‘The Librarians’, in which he appears, are available on DVD.
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