My 17-Minute Battle to Retrieve Drugstore Deodorant From the Plexiglass Prison

Minute 1: I’d better make a stop at the store, I think to myself as I’m headed home from work. I’m down to the last nub of my deodorant, and it’s technically my turn to get the house paper towels. As I arrive at a CVS somewhere between here and purgatory, the automatic doors open to usher me inside, thus beginning the odyssey: My 17-minute battle to retrieve drugstore deodorant from behind the plexiglass prison.

Minute 1 and a half: I make my way towards aisle 7. Personal care.

Minute 2: I spot the inimitable blue hue and voluptuous contours of the Secret Outlast 48-Hour Clear Gel Antiperspirant & Deodorant Stick. She’s the best deodorant known to mankind, according to real-life scientists, and only $9.99.

Minute 2 and 5 seconds: F*ck. The deodorant is behind the goddamn plexiglass. They must know how valuable it is— how I would do anything to retrieve it. I press the customer service button, which, in theory, notifies a nearby associate to unlock the plexiglass prison. But that is not what would happen.

Minute 3: How long has it been? I’ve already watched at least 27 Instagram reels, and nary an associate has shown themselves.

Minute 5: This is why you should’ve just gone to Target, I think to myself, where theft is encouraged. Alas, we’re in too deep. I press the service member button again.

Minute 6: Initiate eye contact with an employee. Any employee. As I look around, all I see are a few sparse shoppers and one lonesome checkout lady.

Minute 6 and 10 seconds: I guess I’ll do the Wordle.

Minute 7: I can feel the strap on my work bag making a permanent indentation in my shoulder, and I’ve come to the sad realization that I’ve never needed the powers of the Secret 48-Hour Clear Gel Stick more than in this very moment. And I need the good shit. Not that “aluminum-free” bullshit. I want the aluminum-heavy. There’s a reason they call it Secret, and it’s because once you know the Secret, you might just get killed (or get armpit cancer or something).

Minute 7 and 30 seconds: The Wordle was DUSTY.

Minute 8: I press the button again. At this point, I should just leave out of embarrassment that it has taken me this long to ask someone.

Minute 9: I’m sure the workers are just on a short break and will return to their posts any second now.

Minute 9 and 30 seconds: Manifestation.

Manifest the deodorant onto your skin.

Minute 10: Tampering with the plexiglass fortification is illegal, Claire, and you will go to jail. Don’t do it.

Minute 11: Should I?

Minute 12: What if I pressed the button one million more times?

Minute 12 and 30 seconds: I’ve never been thirstier in my life. Must have a sip of water.

Minute 13: Like, I wasn’t even going to steal it. But now I want to, on principle alone.

Minute 14: I don’t call my grandma enough. I’m such a piece of shit.

Minute 14 and 10 seconds: You know what? I’m burning this whole place to the ground. No one gets to smell good. Happy now?

Minute 14 and 20 seconds: Deep breath. Name three things you see, three sounds you hear, and three things you can touch.

Minute 14 and 50 seconds: “Customer assistance on aisle 12,” the intercom announces to the mostly empty CVS. A sign of life. Only that’s not the deodorant aisle. As I scan the rest of the store, I meet the whites of an elderly woman’s eyes, staring at me from the prune juice aisle: aisle 12. She stares back. Then I stare harder. We’ve been waiting for this moment our whole lives.

Minute 15: The customer service associate appears, strolling down the nave of the CVS. They marched towards the prune juice. Maybe, if I really pray and manifest and bargain, they will loop back around and make their way over here after they’ve unlocked the prunes. 

Minute 15 and 30 seconds: Eye contact. Eye contact. Eye contact. YES. COME HERE. UNSHACKLE THE SECRET FROM THIS SLAMMER. 

Minute 15 and 45 seconds: “What do you want?” The customer associate asks me.

“That one, please,” I declare. They unlock the prison and hand it to me. I start skipping to the checkout.

Minute 16: I check out via CVS’s state-of-the-art self-checkout kiosk. I can almost smell it. The sweet smell of spiritual release. Payment approved.

Minute 17: My Secret and I are free.

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Fuck! I forgot the goddamn paper towels.