End Of A Mission -- After 45 Years In Business, George And Evelyn Benson Have Closed Their Capitol Hill Pharmacy

In the neighborhood, the word started going around last Friday. The Bensons were closing their pharmacy on Capitol Hill at 7 that night.

They had been in business for 45 years and through 29 holdups, although it wasn't the crime that made them call it quits.

Evelyn is 67, and six days a week, with little vacation time, she had worked in the pharmacy. George is 75, and he had been there with his wife for half of those years. Then he was elected to the City Council, where he served until last year. Now it was time to rest.

As 7 o'clock neared, the local residents trickled in. "We'll miss you, we'll miss you," you'd hear them saying over and over again. They brought flowers, cards, and some kids even made a banner. It, too, said, "We'll miss you."

A small place where they knew you

You looked around, and you could understand the sentiments. It wasn't that Benson's Mission Pharmacy, at East Aloha Street and 19th Avenue East, carried a multitude of merchandise.

It was exactly the opposite, a small place that got its name because it was across the street from a Jesuit mission, where Evelyn knew your name when you walked in.

It was a place that couldn't compete with the big chains on prices, but it was a place that, if your kid had an ear infection, and you got home late from the office, Evelyn or George would personally drop off the amoxicillin at your home.

Back in 1972, George proudly had his photo taken in front of a Dodge van they used to deliver prescriptions. It had run up 101,635 miles.

Among the residents who stopped by were Eric Westberg; his wife, Deborah, and their young son. They had lived in the neighborhood half a dozen years, so it wasn't as if they were exactly old-timers.

The pharmacy gave them a sense of place, a commodity that doesn't easily fit economic models that explain why the big chains are taking over, and why little neighborhood shops are closing down.

The Westbergs, too, had had medicine for their son delivered late at night. "We were blown away," Westberg said.

Itemizing the robberies

The Bensons were asked to itemize some of the robberies. They remembered the man who was so short that at first Evelyn couldn't see the robber because he was behind a store employee. There was the robber who took a liter of prescription cough syrup, drank it outside and passed out. Not surprisingly, the Bensons are outspoken gun-control advocates.

They never thought of quitting. Instead, they preferred to remember the times that children would come into the pharmacy and see George Benson's trolley car displays. One of his City Council legacies is that trolley along the waterfront.

Besides the neighbors, eight Payless employees quietly waited for the store to close.

The chain was buying the inventory it could use, and, most importantly, the pharmacy's biggest asset: its list of 1,400 customers. Starting the next day, the pharmacy's phone would transfer to the Payless store on Broadway, whose management said it wanted to make the Benson customers feel welcome.

One condition of the deal was that the closure of Benson's Mission Pharmacy not be publicized. That list of 1,400 individuals wouldn't have much value if there was a mass exodus of customers.

There really hadn't been any other option for the Bensons.

There were no takers

For two years the couple had tried to find a younger version of themselves to take over Benson's Mission Pharmacy, offering to carry a contract, to make it easy for someone to take over. There were no takers, nobody to work the six-day weeks with little vacation.

As the inventory was counted, George Benson showed a list he had drawn up that day. From memory, he had handwritten the names of 99 neighborhood pharmacies, along with the names of the owners he had personally known, that had closed these past decades.

Sunset Pharmacy. Fremont Pharmacy. Lincoln Pharmacy. Burston's. Tokuda Drug. Now, Benson could list only 22 neighborhood pharmacists still operating.

Another neighbor came and gave Evelyn a hug. "I just heard," she said. Then, the words that had been repeated over and over. "I'll miss you."

Last Friday another small store closed. What dollar figure do you put on Evelyn and George Benson, who made you feel less isolated in the big city?

Erik Lacitis' column appears Sunday, Tuesday and Friday in the Scene section of The Times. The e-mail address for Erik Lacitis is: elac-new@seatimes.com. Include your daytime and evening phone numbers.