(The Apothecary from Romeo & Juliet Speaks)
I sold exactly one bottle.
One.
Do you know how many bottles I sold that week?
Hundreds.
Tinctures.
Tonics.
Salves.
Digestive remedies.
One questionable treatment for gout that I remain unconvinced ever worked.
Yet somehow history remembers precisely one transaction.
And not in a flattering way.
The Shop
Now, before we proceed, I’d like to describe my circumstances.
Because context matters.
I was poor.
Not “business is slow” poor.
Not “we may need to cut expenses” poor.
I mean the sort of poor where your shelves are emptier than your stomach.
The sort of poor where every customer represents the difference between supper and another evening of creative starvation.
The Customer
Then one day, in walks a young man.
Well-dressed.
Agitated.
Clearly in possession of more emotion than judgment.
Now, after years in retail, I’ve learned to recognize danger signs.
And this young man arrived carryin’ several of them.
The Request
He asks for poison.
Not medicine.
Not advice.
Poison.
Now I immediately informed him that such sales were prohibited.
Which, I feel, demonstrates a commendable commitment to professional ethics.
The story rarely mentions this.
The Negotiation
Then he produces money.
A substantial amount of money.
Enough money to make a poor man consider possibilities.
Now I would like to point out that this is less a moral failing and more an economic vulnerability.
Had my cupboards been full, we’d likely not be havin’ this conversation.
A Professional Concern
Even then, I had questions.
Naturally.
The young man appeared distressed.
Urgent.
Determined.
These are not characteristics generally associated with safe pharmaceutical outcomes.
I asked what he intended.
He gave answers.
None of them reassurin’.
The Sale
Eventually, against my better judgment, the exchange occurred.
One bottle.
One payment.
One customer.
A transaction so ordinary at the time that I recorded it on the same page as liniment and cough syrup.
The Following Week
Now imagine my surprise when the entire city loses its mind.
People runnin’.
Families mournin’.
Priests explainin’.
Poets composin’.
And gradually, horribly, I begin hearin’ details.
The Realization
There is a unique sensation associated with discoverin’ you’ve become a footnote in somebody else’s catastrophe.
Particularly when you had no intention of participatin’.
I remember sittin’ in my shop thinkin’:
“Surely this will blow over.”
It did not.
The Historians
Then came the scholars.
And the playwrights.
And the teachers.
Generations of them.
All pointin’ to that one bottle.
That one sale.
That one customer.
As though I personally orchestrated the entire tragedy.
The Numbers
Allow me to offer perspective.
Over the course of my career, I filled:
- thousands of orders
- hundreds of remedies
- countless treatments
Successful outcomes.
Useful outcomes.
Perfectly ordinary outcomes.
Yet nobody remembers the fellow whose rash improved.
The True Culprit
If you ask me, the real problem wasn’t poison.
The real problem was communication.
I’ve reviewed the matter repeatedly.
Every disaster in that story can be traced to somebody failin’ to deliver accurate information at the proper time.
Yet somehow the pharmacist remains the villain.
The Reunion
A few years ago, I attended a gathering of literary scapegoats.
Lovely event.
Met Job’s Wife.
The Wolf.
Possibly Judas.
Hard to tell.
Everybody wore name tags.
The consensus was unanimous.
History enjoys simplification.
Closing Statement
So yes.
I sold the bottle.
I won’t deny it.
But if you’re lookin’ for the man who ruined literature, I suggest expandin’ your investigation.
Because by the time that young fellow walked through my door, half the damage had already been done.
I merely provided the final ingredient.
And frankly…
I’ve had customers make worse decisions with cough medicine.
And that, as near as I can determine from the records, is how one retail transaction became one of the most famous prescriptions in literary history.
olbigjim 