It is a freezing Sunday in beautiful Madison, Wisconsin. You are ready to start your Sunday, not expecting any scaries at noon yet — there is a first time for everything in college. You’ve already braved State Street, grocery shopped and attempted to clean up the wreckage of your room from last night — nothing out of the ordinary. But then, you hit Walgreens.
You step into Walgreens expecting a quick errand. You could not be more wrong. The line stretches past the shampoo aisle and everyone ahead of you is a different kind of Sunday disaster. The entire student body got the same memo — suffer together. Welcome to the great equalizer — Walgreens, where everyone’s weekend choices catch up to them.
The first person that draws your attention is the 5’11 (not six foot) boy standing a few feet away from you. He stumbles into Walgreens like he’s still at the tail end of last night’s epic pregame, wearing a hoodie that’s just a little too tight and sporting a wristband from the bar he went to in the early morning hours. There is a faint smell of regret wafting from him, mixed with what could only be described as a “Fireball and Spotted Cow” aroma. He is the living embodiment of “I swear, I’m never drinking again,” a promise he’ll make and break before he even steps foot out of the Walgreens.
He holds a basket filled with his definition of the essentials. A single banana (because of electrolytes, apparently?), Pedialyte — from a quick Google search on how to get rid of a hangover — and Gatorade. He stares at the cold medicine aisle like he’s trying to read a calculus textbook, squinting and figuring out if NyQuil is the one that knocks you out or if that’s Dayquil. (It’s NyQuil, but he’s too proud to ask).
As the line inches forward, the frat boy approaches the counter, eyes still glazed over. The pharmacist calls his name, and for a moment, he is unsure if it’s his turn, staring blankly into the Walgreens abyss. Finally, he shuffles up, and his brain goes into full panic mode. He realizes he has no idea how insurance works. There’s a long, awkward pause where he mumbles something about his parent’s health plan while the line collectively signs, thinking “We’ve all been there, bro.”
Unlike the frat bro who looks like he lost a fight with a bottle of tequila, the actual sick person is here for legitimate reasons. They are not battling the consequences of poor life choices, just the worst sinus infection of their life. Hood up with a red nose and puffy eyes, they stand in complete misery, clutching a pack of tissues like it’s their lifeline.
They have one goal — get in, get their meds and get out. Their entire body aches, their head pounds and they are so close to their meds that they can practically taste the artificial cherry flavor already. But Walgreens moves at its own pace. The wait is endless, the fluorescent lights are blinding and standing upright for this long feels like an Olympic sport.
By the time they finally reach the counter, their voice is barely above a whisper. “I’m here to pick up a prescription,” they croak, sounding like they’ve been smoking since birth. The pharmacist nods and types at an offensively slow speed. Finally, the bag is in their hands. Sweet, pharmaceutical relief. They shuffle out the door into the freezing Wisconsin air, wholly drained, ready to collapse into bed for the next 48 hours.
Some in this line are here for survival, whether it’s cold medicine, hangover cures or antibiotics. Others are here for preventative measures. Enter the Plan B couple.
They stand in line together, avoiding eye contact with everyone, including each other. She is scrolling aggressively on her phone while he stares at a very enticing spot on the floor. Both are radiating the unique energy of two people who are trying to act casual while internally freaking out.
Every few seconds, she sighs and he shifts his weight. No words are exchanged, but an entire telepathic conversation is happening:
“I cannot believe we are here right now.”
“No one knows what’s going on here.”
“Oh, everyone knows what’s happening here, Chad.”
Finally, it’s their turn. They approach the counter like two people walking to their sentencing. He suddenly becomes very interested in a rack of chapstick, pretending he is anywhere but here. She mutters something about needing the pill, sliding her ID across the counter with the speed of someone who wants this transaction to be over yesterday.
The pharmacist rings it up without a second glance. She pays. He mumbles, “I’ll Venmo you,” as she looks at him. They leave Walgreens in complete silence, stepping back into the surprisingly comforting cold, mutually deciding never to speak of this again.
As you finally leave Walgreens three hours later, prescription in hand, dignity slightly diminished, you step back into the freezing Madison air, knowing you’ve just experienced a rite of passage. The Sunday Walgreens line may be long, miserable and deeply humbling, but at least it’s a reminder that no matter what kind of disaster you are, you’re never suffering alone.