Lary Bloom Photo
On Labor Day, I watched from across the street as a young man walked up to the front door of an abandoned East Rock storefront and tried to peek through the shaded windows. Where, he must have wondered, was the drug counter, the mini-post office, the usual human bustle?
The fellow was, by then, one of hundreds of neighborhood denizens who yet hadn’t heard the dyspeptic news that our independent drug store had closed for good. East Rock Pharmacy, after all, had stood at the corner of Orange and Linden streets since 1909.
Its latest owners in the historic Hall Benedict building, who took over seven years ago, held on to the crazy idea that in the Age of CVS, Walgreen’s, Wal-Mart, Stop & Shop, etc., that it was still possible for a little pharmacy to survive. And survive it did, until this past Thursday, when I went in during the final hours to see if I could score one last 90-day supply of a medicine that eases my swallowing.
But swallow this development? My wife and I had boasted about our perfect Rockwellian setting, our condo on Orange, where we walk to the gym, hike in East Rock Park, to three Italian markets, the wine store, the coffee shop, on Mondays for half-priced wine night at our go-to restaurant, to the wellness center and could even, should we get the urge to do so, have our dental implants installed. It seemed to us that the way this retro neighborhood was going, and with handy public transportation to downtown, we could soon become a no-car family.
At this point, there are only guesses as to what will replace what’s gone at Orange and Linden, but surely no pharmacy business would sacrifice its health by filling it. Online suggestions range from a place of refreshment (a gelateria) to one that specializes in herbal remedies to one in which certain substances would be sold that would raise fierce objections from Attorney General Jeff Sessions.
Cannabis or not, we nevertheless will continue to feel loss. Indeed, in our case we forged a close connection to the pharmacy the very week we moved to New Haven from Chester, in December of 2014.
We ordered a prescription and, because it was a frigid night, we took advantage of the pharmacy’s delivery service though we live only two blocks away. We expected our package at about 6 p.m., but at 7:30 it still hadn’t arrived. Perhaps, we thought, this was a scam. We were new to the neighborhood, and perhaps the folks at the pharmacy said to each other, “Aha. Suckers have just moved in. Do they think it’s 1953, and the egg man and the milk man come to the door every day?”
Well, weren’t we surprised when we got a call from the deliverer who said he was at our place. We went to the door but saw no one there. “You’re kidding,” I said to the man on the phone. “You’re invisible.”
“No, sir,” he said. “I’m not getting any answer to my ring.”
“Where exactly are you?” I asked.
“Your house in Chester, sir.” Forty miles away.
No. This was no scam. East Rock Pharmacy was a place of little miracles, where the people behind the counter knew your name, and were happy to work with chain stores when you found yourself at, say, in Washington, D.C., and discovered that you left your Levothyroxine, 100 milligrams, back in New Haven, and were worried that your delicate medical condition would prevent you from joining the protest in Lafayette Park against, well, you name it.
The pharmacy wasn’t perfect, of course. No place is. You couldn’t access medications online. Its prices for grooming needs were higher than in the chains. And, in the end, it bungled its closing, giving customers little notice, saying only that the employees would retreat to the company headquarters in Wallingford to focus on the long-term care market, and even then sending a confusing message about what pharmacy would inherit their retail business.
Early indications were that the CVS on Church Street was the go-to substitute. But then it appeared that it was the CVS on Whalley Avenue that was chosen. Indeed, the latter was the preferred place because it has a parking lot and a drive-through window.
Just like the suburbs. Ugh.
Perhaps, though, the last word on this should go to our late U.S. poet laureate Donald Hall, who grew up in Hamden and was related to the folks who began the Hall Benedict business. Here, then, is appropriate advice from “Poem Beginning With a Line From Wittgenstein:”
The world is everything that is the case,
Now stop your blubbering and wash your face.
We justifiably mourn the loss of our small, neighborhood businesses because of the relationships that are lost when they leave.
They couldn't compete with the chains, but they brought a personal face to one of life's daily transactions.
Either we find a way to restore some of these small businesses to our neighborhoods, or we will find that there is no neighborhood; just a place to buy something.