In search of Tylenol

I was walking with my mom in upper Manhattan. We had to get back to the Port Authority, and then to New Jersey, but first we had to do some shopping. So we split up.

I found my mom in a drugstore. She had a headache and wanted to buy Tylenol. I started looking.

The drugstore was a maze of small rooms, some with short aisles of consumer goods, others with wall shelves holding what appeared to be prescription drugs. Still other rooms had hospital beds, with patients in them. I couldn’t understand why I was allowed to walk through these rooms.

I found someone to ask about Tylenol. She was young, smartly dressed, carrying a clipboard, looking like someone from cable news. I followed her as she walked through several rooms. “I found a bed where my mom can rest,” I said. “But I need to buy some Tylenol.”

She walked to another room, sat down on a sofa, and looked at her clipboard. “I thought you were showing me where the Tylenol is!” I said. She looked at me angrily. A timer in my pocket beeped.

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