Birth Control and Adult Powder

My friend Anna is broken. She smacked her foot up a couple of weeks ago in a drunken excursion and has since been laid up, dependent on the goodness of others for the simplest of things. My having been full up with moving, puking, and falling, among many other things, I have been ignorant for too long of her needs.

The plan for the evening was for me to head to her place after work and, perhaps, pick up some dinner. It didn't quite go as smoothly as all that. She needed powder, she told me, so her foot would be soothed more than not. Powder for adults. I have never heard of such a thing, but told her I would get it during lunch, as I had other errands to run.

After struggling through picture-taking, Empire State enthusiasts, I made my way to Duane Reade. I was determined not to have to call her, so I went on a journey, up and down each aisle, finally landing on the one I thought would have this powder I have never seen. A cursory glance yielded no results and so I figured it was up by the baby powder, which I have heard of. So upstairs I went in search of it. I called her.

"I found it. Baby powder, right?"

"Baby powder? No. It should be by the deoderants. Try there."

"Ok," I said, hanging up, concerned with my quickly diminishing Verizon minutes. In the deodorant aisle, I saw some deodorant in an aerosol can. It said the word "powder" on it, so I figured that was it. I called her back.

"I found it. It's in a can, right?"

"What does it say?"

"Powder."

"Is it aerosol?"

"Yes."

"That's not it. Go ask someone."

I hate asking for things. Directions, definitely. And if I'm told something exists and I can get it in a store, then I will be sure to find it. So asking someone was the last thing I wanted to do. Not to mention I was on lunch and I still had some other things to do. So I went up to the first person I saw who looked like they worked there. She was replenishing the greeting-card stock.

"Excuse me. I'm looking adult powder." If powder for babies is called "baby powder," then surely powder for adults is called "adult powder."

"I don't work for Duane Reade. I just put the cards away."

"Right. Ok."

Off to find another worker.

"Excuse me," I asked the woman in a blue smock who was headed toward her manager. "Where can I find adult powder?"

She chuckled. Wonderful. This is precisely what I had hoped would happen. "Look in the baby aisle," she said, now smirking at my apparent stupidity. But just then, her manager intervened.

"What are you looking for?"

"Adult powder," I said, hoping that he knew where it was -- not necessarily so I could buy it and get out of there, but more so now so this girl could be shafted. For laughing at me.

"It's downstairs. Aisle three." Redeemed. So down I went, playing with the escalator like I do, almost tripping in front of the security guard who looked on as though I was a four-year-old. I scanned the goods on aisle three, having no faith in finding this product despite the promises of the manager.

Then, way at the other end, just before the pantyhose, was the adult powder. Gold Bond. I've heard of them. And a couple of other brands. So I called broken Anna again.

"I found it. Medicated powder, right?"

"Well, I don't want medicated."

"That's all there is."

"What brands are there?"

I squatted, because the adult powder was on the bottom shelf. As I read the labels of each bottle, women were walking by, headed toward products about which they knew. I was embarrassed as more and more kept coming. "They're all medicated," I said, hoping she would make a decision. It's just adult powder after all, and they all have their purposes.

"Can you read the active ingredients?" I complied with this latest of Anna's requests and helped her finally settle on one. I could finally leave, now knowing that if I ever needed adult powder, I would know that it exists and where I could find it.

By the end of the day, the 24-hour Claritin I took just ten hours before stopped working. Head full, eyes burning, nose running, I called Anna back, telling her that I would not be able to pick up fruit and vegetables, because, well, I was just not feeling well enough to negotiate a produce aisle. They overwhelm and intimidate me. So I called her before leaving work.

"Just go to the deli. I need grapes, broccoli for the salmon we're going to have, and Fuji apples. It's just a block away from my house."

"What's a Fuji apple?" Yes, I'm a fruit idiot.

"Just ask someone." But I was feeling lazy. Lazy, lazy. And sneezing those allergy sneezes that take minutes to recover from. I continued to whine.

"Fine, just don't go," I gave in, realizing the poor thing couldn't walk and I was being stupid. So off to the deli I went. There were no Fuji apples. I had to call her.

"They don't have Fuji apples."

"I'm in a crisis, but I'll have to tell you that when you get here."

"They don't have Fuji apples."

"Well, what kind do they have?"

"They have apples. Red and green ones."

"Golden Delicious?"

"Yeah, they have those."

"Ok, get me a good one."

I picked out the greenest GD and grabbed a bunch of red grapes, two Sierra Nevadas for myself and headed to her place, having forgotten the broccoli.

As I approached her front door, a gaunt man with a white, unkempt beard was watering the sidewalk with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. I was hoping he'd feel me coming and turn the water off. He did, but not till I was right up on him.

"Thank you," I said.

"You're welcome, guy," was his reply in an unintelligible accent.

I entered Anna's house, and she was standing in the kitchen with one of those cool casts. I kissed her on the cheek, hugged her, and apologized. For whatever.

"Ok, so you know the birth control I take? Remember my telling you about it?"

"Yeah." No she's not.

"I thought I had another prescription, but I can't find it, and so I called to see if the pharmacist I ususally go to could transfer the prescription up here."

No she's not.

"You're gonna ask me to go pick up your birth control, aren't you?"

"I tried to save you by seeing if they'd deliver it."

"That's like asking your boyfriend to get you tampons. You know that, right?"

She laughed. I didn't. And off I went. To another Duane Reade, down the adult powder aisle, to the pharmacy in the back. It was relatively painless, and after giving them my name in exchange for the birth control, the first and most likely last time I will ever hold such a thing, I headed out the store with the package in my hand. I had a great salmon dinner in exchange for my efforts and learned a few things, as well. Like you shouldn't put hot water in a tea kettle. Who knew?

Me and the broken girl: