Friday, April 3, 2020

The guard at the nearest large supermarket won’t let anyone in without a mask. I’m wearing one. I get in easily. The guy behind me has a young daughter and a rolling cart but not a mask. He can’t come in. In the produce department, a woman wearing non-skid rubber gloves tears clear plastic bags off a roll and easily opens them. The next customer, with slippery clear gloves, can’t open his. After several attempts, he looks over to the woman and asks “Possible?” She takes his bag and opens it. The customer behind her gestures with her bag. The woman takes that, too, and opens it for her. A third, without gloves, raises his hand to his mouth but, with the mask in place, can’t moisten his fingers. He approaches the woman with his bag and says “Ma’am?” I walk away, but when I glance back from the other end of the aisle, she is still opening bags for people. The store is scruffy and chaotic. The prices are higher than I’ve seen elsewhere. They do have the frozen berries that I had sought for the JoeBowl, but not some of the cleaning supplies that I want. I remember why I only shop there once a year or so. As I exit, the guard is rationing the number of people he lets in. The woman in front of me heads out with a small girl. “One,” the guard intones. Two people try to enter. “One,” he says again. The man points to the girl. “But…” Apparently she doesn’t count. “One.” I speak up from behind him. “I’m leaving.” I head out. The guard declares, “Another one.” The couple enters. I see about a dozen people outside the store, lined up, widely spaced, waiting. No one else was in line when I went in. I got there just in time.