Georgetown figure to retire, close pharmacy

In the cluttered storage room of his Georgetown Pharmacy, Jack Cordova looks at a handful of prescription slips from 1946. The customers are probably long dead, but it's still tough to throw the things out. Those were people.

"This is the most difficult thing I've ever had to do," he says.

Preparing for the end of the business he's owned since 1962, he's standing amid dusty piles of its history: old clear-glass bottles, an ancient stamp machine, vintage cash registers, antique bottles for tonics such as Fritola and Waterbury's Compound — many of whose primary ingredient tended to be alcohol back when that appeared to improve pretty much anything.

On Sept. 30, Cordova will close the doors of the old industrial neighborhood's mainstay pharmacy and slip into retirement a few days before his 80th birthday.

"I'm in a state of remorse and apology to all our people, but it's the only thing I can do. If it's not now, it'll be a year from now," Cordova says.

He tried to find someone to carry on the business. Took out ads. Talked to potential successors. But no takers.

"I would have preferred to have some young fella purchase this, but they're not to be found. Because a pharmacist today has a nine-to-five, 40-hour week, and makes about the same money I make, and ... why give that up for all I do here?"

Cordova figures he's put in 12 hours a day, nearly every day of the week, since the beginning. Standing behind him, his daughter and "right-hand woman," Lynn, finds that a nearly laughable underestimate. She recalls the luxury of a two-day vacation the family once took decades ago.

At the very least, the darkening of the pharmacy's striking big, old neon sign is just cause for the usual litany: one more small, independent, personal business gives way in the Darwinian war of attrition against mega-chains. Seattle loses one more sliver of its character in the ongoing process of every city in America looking more and more alike.

But Cordova's departure signals a deeper loss to the neighborhood's residents.

At the nearby Georgetown Dental Clinic, dentist Jerri Carducci tears up talking about "Uncle Jack."

"He's old school. There's a lot of yuppie people moving into Georgetown and they're kind of taking away the essence of Georgetown. When you walk in there," she says of the pharmacy, "it's like going back in time."

Around the block from the pharmacy at the Fantagraphics Bookstore & Gallery, Larry Reid says, "I think it's tragic. It's obviously anachronistic. Their line of merchandise consists of stuff you can't find anywhere, and prices probably haven't changed since 1975.

"I'm disappointed because it's this cute little throwback place with a lot of character. And Jack sort of acts as a community doctor," Reid says. "To a lot of retirees and blue-collar workers, it's not just a pharmacy. To a lot of people in the community, it's a lifeline."

Part general store as well, Cordova's pharmacy has an old machine by the front door that dispenses 50-cent cans of pop.

There are four-dollar puzzles. Hardware odds and ends. Randomly on hooks, several identical wide belts with huge buckles that look as if they've either been hanging since someone bought all the matching bell-bottoms, or have come from pirate costumes.

Where he finds the stuff is as much a mystery as how he makes ends meet with the prices he charges.

"I can't tell all my secrets. I have to be open to look for value wherever I am," Cordova says wryly.

John LeMaster, owner of nearby Jules Maes Saloon, recalls, "One time I went in there with an employee who had really, really bad cramps and [Cordova's] daughter was working there. She was just like, 'Honey, you need to sit down and have a glass of water. You need to take this right now.' "

LeMaster sums up what's set Cordova apart from the grocery-store pharmacy that will inherit his customers soon: "He just cares about you.

"He'll talk to you and try to get to the bottom of what's wrong, as opposed to just filling your prescription and handing you the bag. He'll ask you what's wrong. You go in there and don't have insurance, he'll direct you to a more affordable alternative, and say, 'You don't necessarily have to spend the money.' "

Reticent when it comes to talking about himself, Cordova allows, "I'll give a little pep talk, some extra counsel. We know the people, and if there's something extra I can say to them, I say it. People seek out the personal service if there's any place to go for that."

Back at the counter in the pharmacy, Cordova sees customers walk in the front door and goes to get their prescriptions before they get close enough to say a word. He's not sure what he'll do with his newfound free time when he retires. Maybe some charity work.

"I'm doing what I was made out to do," he says.

Mark Rahner: 206-464-8259 or mrahner@seattletimes.com