Hell on earth, right there, for all to see, at Racine and Roosevelt, not far from where I sent my kids to Saint Ignatius for high school, in the once great city of Chicago, the very same city that, five short years ago, had more...
Read MoreHell on earth, right there, for all to see, at Racine and Roosevelt, not far from where I sent my kids to Saint Ignatius for high school, in the once great city of Chicago, the very same city that, five short years ago, had more in common with Dresden than Port au Prince, resides another stellar example of what pathetic failure of the corporate practice of medicine looks like and precisely just how screwed we all are whether we know it or not.
My wife's primary care physician phoned in a Cephalexin prescription at 11:30 AM yesterday and, as of 7:25 PM, or eight hours later, it was nowhere near being filled. Either these employees are untrainable or management, if such a thing exists here or anywhere within the nightmare that is CVS, threw in the towel after bringing on board the conglomeration of impairments that pass for employees at this place. Imagine, if you will, calling an establishment, anywhere, 15 times to ascertain the status of your order before wasting time showing up if incomplete, and not once does an employee pick up the phone, forcing one to simply show up and learn that, indeed, your prescription, called in 8 hours prior "ain't done yet".
Adding insult to injury, belly up to the pharmacy counter and listen to the unkempt non binary sloth complain about how overworked he/she/it is and you'll understand the abject joy of using this place for anything transcending emergency patronage of its perpetually filthy restroom, a necessary detour after walking into the establishment and realizing that just about every product, from antiseptics to Zagnut bars, are locked up in preparation for round 43 of the impending looting spree sure to arrive before Boxing Day. No wonder CVS is closing stores about as quickly as migrants are finding warm swatches of sidewalk at the corner of Blue Island and Cermak to call home.
Some of us remember a time when more than perfect alternatives to this type of s--t show existed, and fondly recall the so called "mom and pop" apothecaries that thrived in every neighborhood with caring, literate and thoughtful staff that endeared itself to all who patronized them. Those places are gone forever, replaced by the likes of this sad excuse for anything resembling anything benefitting anybody but the pencil necked bean counting empty suits running them into the ground in the interest of shareholder equity. It's hard to imagine how visiting this place could do anything but make one wish he/she/it was absolutely anywhere else but there. Need an elixer and some SSRIs to deal daily with the confluence of factors driving a once great city into the ground? Find yourself a snake charmer who speaks in tongues and at least responds when queried. If instead you desire a biopsychosocial mind numbing experience not to be replicated until the next time you are foolish enough to use this God forsaken place, hurry on down to 1211 W. Roosevelt. Straight jackets and electroshock nomenclature is optional.
Wheelchair-accessible car park 
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