March 27--Open letter to my neighborhood Walgreens:
The day that one of your clerks, cashiers or pharmacists hails me by name and inquires about my shopping needs is the day I become a customer of CVS.
It's not that I'm particularly furtive or easily embarrassed. Or that I don't realize your employees often recognize regular patrons.
It's that I like to assume that I'm anonymous when shopping for the sorts of personal items in which your chain specializes -- you know, the ointments, unguents, palliatives, powders, sprays, pads, nostrums and devices that, taken together as purchases, tell intimate stories about us all.
And so I was disconcerted to learn of your new corporate policy that tells employees to begin to "offer assistance in a personalized, sincere manner, using the customer's name, when possible."
An example, taken from an internal memo obtained by Tribune business reporter Ellen Jean Hirst: "Welcome back, Mr. Smith, what brings you in today?"
Maybe Mr. Smith's drugstore needs are boring this time -- batteries, toothpaste, a quart of milk, a bar of soap.
But he will nevertheless be unnerved by the reminder that employees will know him by name and on sight when, sooner or later, his needs are more, shall we say, interesting -- Beano, perhaps. Rogaine. Pin-X. Preparation H. Clearblue Advanced Pregnancy Test.
The last thing he wants to imagine when he wanders in for a pack of gum is a clerk booming, "Welcome back, Mr. Smith, how did that Miralax work out for you?"
"I'd rather they ask me to talk about race," said a friend.
Sure, privacy is an illusion at the neighborhood pharmacy. We leave trails of consumer data every time we pick up a prescription or swipe our credit cards. Cashiers can see at a glance the state of health in our families (though, honestly, they scan in so many products in a shift that they almost certainly don't think about it for two seconds).
But it is an important illusion -- akin to the illusion of mutual anonymity between penitent and confessor.
The minute I leave here you will forget for all eternity that I have a pesky rash ...
And it's not an illusion necessary at other retail outlets. Hardware store customers don't care if the world knows they're low on sandpaper or have an urgent need for duct tape. No one fears being judged or pitied at the music store for being in need of a tuner or fresh set of strings.
Your personal-greeting directive was in the same memo that told Walgreens employees that they are no longer required to send customers on their way with a cheery "Be well!"
Company spokesman Michael Polzin said that the rote valediction, imposed chain-wide in 2013, was being discontinued because it had "accomplished its goal of reinforcing our branding."
Good idea. "Be well" seldom felt natural -- it sometimes had the ring of an affectation, like "later, gator," or "hasta la bye-bye." And it seemed to invite a dry response on the order of, "If I could be well, I wouldn't need to shop at Walgreens."
Though it buttressed the idea that Walgreens is committed to the good health of its customers, "be well" also conflicted with the fact that you sell cigarettes, sugary, fatty snacks and, in some locations, liquor.
Telling someone "be well" after ringing up his purchase of Ho Hos and Lucky Strikes is almost unpleasantly ironic. "Be smarter next time" would be more fitting.
A simple, "thank you, come again" or the now ritualistic "have a nice day" is all any of us need in the way of fond farewells from the checkout clerks.
That, along with the pretense they've never seen us before in their lives.
Comments: chicagotribune.com/zorn
