TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: (And I damn well think it should concern someone.)

Crawling around on my hands and knees outdoors at night in dangerous neighborhoods is not part of my normal routine, but that’s how the paramedics found me in your parking lot at 12th and Valencia in Tucson on the night of October 28th. I could not breathe. My heart was pounding and I heard myself making short, involuntary grunting noises, trying to get air.

After eating a restaurant dinner downtown, I was driving to the airport. My wife’s flight was due in at 10:35. I had almost an hour to kill. An allergic reaction set in as I drove. Was it something I ate? Was it fear of my wife? I don’t know. I sneezed and sneezed and felt my breathing start to tighten up. I’ve had low-level asthma all my life—though not severe—and didn’t think much about it right at first. But, as the minutes passed it got much worse. As I approached the airport, it was clear I needed help. I had to find a Walgreens pharmacy, since Walgreens is the drugstore I have used for 40 years, and all your stores, from coast to coast, share the same database. Or so we’re told.

I found a Walgreens right away, Thank God, and was pleased to find nobody waiting in line. I’m pretty good at staying calm in an emergency, but with almost no air in my lungs I was starting to freak. I told the pharmacist I was having an acute asthma attack, and needed my prescription right away — Albuterol. The guy seemed oddly lifeless and detached, like a man who’d been carved out of wax. He took my name and date of birth, poked around in the computer, and announced, without interest, to judge by his face or his voice, that he had found my name in the computer: “There’s been no activity on your account for more than a year, and no prescriptions for asthma medication.” This was, in fact, completely false. I tried to tell him so, but failed. I had run out of air.

In fact, I could no longer stand up straight, and had both elbows propped up on the counter to expand my lungs. The druggist wouldn’t acknowledge that he had a real-life crisis on his hands. Professional calm is a good thing, of course, but this was something different, something zombie-like and bizarre. Perhaps he’d forgotten to take his own meds; I can’t say. I told him that I dealt with Walgreens at least once a month. He shrugged and said, “Well, maybe you have more than one profile,” as if that was his final statement on the matter. It didn’t seem like the right time to analyze Walgreens’ information retrieval system, because I felt like I was passing out. The intercom announced that it was nearly ten o’clock: Walgreens was closing. I wondered if that’s why this inert jerk wouldn’t get involved. Time to go home.

I turned and started walking out. A sales clerk noticed me and said, “I’m sorry sir, the store is closed.” “Forgive me, ” I said, “I am on my way out.” (Ironic choice of words, as it turned out, because the walk and talk had used up all my oxygen.)

Before I reached the door I was down crawling on the floor, while the sales clerk just gaped in dismay. I told her what my problem was. She asked if she should dial 9-1-1. I said, “Yes, please!” then rolled onto my back, to get more air. I stood up when I could again and went outside. Then, back down on the ground again, to breathe. I knelt there like a wounded beast and started hearing sirens coming, way off down the street. Man, they sounded like cavalry trumpets to me. Like angels braying.

Two fire trucks with flashing lights and half a dozen EMT’s arrived; friendly, competent guys. In less than half an hour they had stabilized my health: albuterol (and oxygen, of course.) To them I give my utmost thanks. To Walgreens, just contempt.

I picked my wife up seven minutes late.