I visited Ashlandia’s Rite Aid. I haven’t been there in months. My Neurons go on an Easter egg hunt to remember when I was last there. “Before Christmas,” they suggest. They’re not sure.

The Rite Aid feels like a perfect metaphor for Ashlandia. It was doing well. Then they decided to modernize it. They enlarged the space. Stock was added. Alcohol and frozen food sections tripled in size. The store is adjacent to an Albertson’s, and across the street from two other stores which provide these offerings at low prices. Apparently, Rite Aid, with its consistently higher prices, thought they could grab some impulse buys from their pharmacy business. It’s only one of two pharmacies in town.

I think Rite Aid guessed wrong. A graveyard silence greets me when I enter. I seriously wonder if there’s anyone else in the store. Ideas of finding a pile of dead bodies come up. I finally see another person. They don’t look like a killer. Neither did Ted Bundy, I hear.

Many Rite Aid shelves are empty, same as my last visit. A solid offering of wines is available. Decent prices, too. I don’t have any wine needs. I move on.

I’m not here to shop. Our household has a continuing need to get rid of used things. Batteries, light bulbs, paints, and outdated prescriptions are part of that list. We have meds that haven’t been used since Obama’s first administration. Containers holding them line several shelves in a hall cupboard. Getting rid of these things is another first world blues matter for us.

My wife initiated this visit. “They have new drug disposal drop off locations. Blue boxes. There’s supposed to be one in Rite Aid. We should take a look.”

I volunteer to do it while I’m out. Missions like these are milk runs.

Using store layout knowledge, I find the blue box without problem. Instructions are provided. Open door. Drop in meds. Close door. Easy peasy.

The door won’t open. I look for releases and additional instructions. Try again. And again. Three tries are a charm, I hear.

A pharmacist comes over. “The box is locked,” he says. “You need to see a store employee to drop something off.”

Very convenient. Not. “That’s not what the instructions say,” I say. I point to the sign.

“Each store is given discretion to handle it as they want.”

“Shouldn’t some instructions be put up that you need to have an employee unlock and open it?”

“Probably. We had to do it. People were putting trash in.”

No probably about it to me. That would be good customer service. I look around the empty store and thank the pharmacist. He returns to his fortress.

I think I’m starting to see why Rite Aid has so many empty shelves.