Walgreens. Court Street, Brooklyn, NY. March 4, 10:24 am.

There’s a price check on register two.

There’s a woman holding a birthday card for a five year old and a box of chocolates.

Behind her a mother with twin 2-year-olds holds a box of pampers and yawns.

An employee named Shantelle is restocking shampoo and making eyes at a baby in a stroller making him laugh.

An older man, late 70, who’s been slowly circling an aisle has finally asked an employee something, leaning close to him. The young man walks the gentlemen over to an aisle of adult diapers.

A young pharmacist’s assistant name Mae speaks Mandarin to an older woman, the woman nodding.

She then switches to English for the next person in line.

And meanwhile, beyond the boardrooms and the ad agencies, life goes on.

Manifestos worth their salt aren’t written in glass towers at corporate headquarters.

They’re written by people on the ground.

By pharmacists and cashiers.

By pensioners and single mothers.

By fathers trying to pay for asthma medication.

Because somewhere, someone just walked into one of our stores.

They need a chronic pain medication.

A child’s fever medication.

Guidance for something they need to whisper about.

These are intimate things.

Vulnerable moments.

So let’s offer real help.

Because real help says I’m listening.

Real help solves a problem.
Real help is kind.
Real help is human.
Walgreens. Real help is here.