The Morning Sickness Mystique & Solution, pt. 4
I worked at USANA Health Sciences which was less than 3 miles away from McKesson, Amerisource Bergen, and Cardinal Health — the wholesale distributors for pharmaceutical manufacturing companies, such as GlaxoSmithKline which made Zofran.
I had never anticipated reaching out to the kids of my Dad’s second wife. After their mother and my father got divorced — 7 years after they were married — it was as if massive weights had been lifted off of my chest. I’d never have to see them again. Never have to hear them again. Never have to be nervous about leaving my bedroom and going to the kitchen, living room, bathroom or to the front or back yard. I’d never have to worry about where my siblings were or where they might end up as my father tried to imitate his stepfather and deferred to his second wife’s kids over his own children.
So when I knocked on the door of their Dad’s home I wasn’t sure what to expect.
“Hi. Are Tonya, Tina or Trina here?”
“Yeah,” their Dad bleached as he waddled back down the hall to get them.
“Girls! Someone’s here for ya,” he said loud enough for all of them to hear him.
“Who is it?” they asked.
“Damned if I know,” he said, plopping himself down in the worn recliner, returning to his TV show.
They walked up the hall to me, their expressions changing from optimism about a friend visiting to seriousness, seeing a former step-brother.
“Hey,” the girls said.
“Hello ladies,” I replied, trying to keep my cool. “How are you all doing?”
“Fine. What’s up?”
“I need…a little help.”
“That’s been obvious for years, man,” they half-joked.
“Yep,” I half-smiled back. “My wife is -”
“You’re married!?” they said.
Slowly I nodded. “Yes,” I replied.
“Like to a monkey or orangutan?”
“No, really. Who’d you marry — one of your sisters or one of your cousins?”
I forced a small amount of laughter at their mocking.
“My wife’s got really bad morning sickness and I need some of your friends to help me get medicine.” I stated, still standing on the porch.
“Sorry there, Professor. None of our friends are doctors. None of them write prescriptions…unless you count heroin and crack as medications!” they erupted in laughter.
“Yeah. No, I know. I’m not asking y’all for a doctor. You guys know anyone who works at McKesson, Amerisource or Cardinal Health?” I persisted.
“Where?” they asked, stupefied.
“Oh, those are some companies around here — about 10 minutes away. I need some of the prescriptions they get from pharmaceutical companies.” I continued.
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“So? Go buy what you need yourself, douche bag.” The youngest former “stepsister” shared.
“I don’t have the money to do that. I need to pay in trade.” I said, faking a smile, so they wouldn’t simply slam the door and walk away.
“What — you gonna dance for my friends?” the oldest asked.
“You gonna make out with my ex-boyfriends? You always did like that idea didn’t you?” the youngest continued.
Continued fake-laughing in the hopes of getting my wife the medication she needed.
“Nah, none of that. Where I work — we test cosmetics, health shakes, vitamins, stuff like that. We take a very small amount of the product, then test it in the lab, then we have to throw away or give away the rest of the product.” I explained.
“Yeah. You’re definitely the mad scientist type, you freak,” the middle sister said.
“Shut up, you stupid *****,” the oldest sister shared. “I want free stuff.”
“I just need Zofran. Those three companies have it. If your friends work there or know pwople who work there…Here I wrote it down on this sticky note. Tell your friends I’ll give them ten times what it’s worth — in trade.” I said.
They took the note and looked at it.
“Why is everything you write so faggy?” they laughed.
“Seriously it’s like you wrote this while you were fantasizing about a romantic getaway with our brothers,” They continued.
“Yeah. So can I call you all in a couple of weeks then?” I asked, looking forward to getting the hell out of there.
“Sure,” the middle sister said. “We’re at 1–800-F***-YOU,” she shared as she slammed the door.
Slowly and calmly I walked back to the tiny two-door stick shift Dodge Colt, saying a silent prayer.
“Thank you, God for helping me restrain myself talking to these mother-…, I mean, these people. Please help me get Zofran to help my wife through her pregnancy.”
I turned the ignition and was surprised to hear someone knocking on my window.
It was the oldest sister.
I rolled down the window.
“Hey. I have a friend who is a janitor at McKesson. I’ll talk to him — but you’re dumb fat…better pay me first. Got it?” she said.
“Deal,” I said. “Thank you so much. I’ll give you all tons of awesome cosmetic and vitamin products.” I shared as I started rolling up the window.
“No.” she said firmly. “Not ‘you all,’ just me. I’m setting this up. It’s my friend who’s going to do it. My witch sisters obviously need the cosmetics more than me,” she said as she tossed her hair behind her right shoulder. “Seriously though — you pay me first and you pay me all of the ‘in trade’ bull you were talking about, ok? You bring it here at night in two weeks. You don’t see my friend. You don’t call him. You don’t ask what his name is. You don’t ask when he’ll have it. You sit on your fat dumb… and get the stuff you’re paying me with.”
“Sounds good,” I said, shocked at the speed at which God answered my prayer. “But can we make it one week? My wife’s really, really sick,” I asked, pushing my luck.
“I’ll ask my friend, moron! He can’t get it if it’s not delivered for another week….but if we get it a week early then the price doubles,” she shared.
“Agreed,” I said.
We would have shaken hands on it but since we’d been in many physical fights with each other while we were all growing up, we just nodded slightly at each other. Since my Dad would see his second ex-wife at Singles Dances — and would ask her to dance to which she’d say yes — after they got divorced, my ex-step-sisters would call their mom and ask her for my Dad’s number — if (fingers crossed) the Zofran could be picked up in one week instead of two.
Originally published at https://loadestone.substack.com.
