Thursday, April 30, 2020

Leaving the supermarket, I wonder for a moment how many of the people there had worn masks. I hadn’t noticed. Then I realize that everyone would have had them. We can’t go in without them. After a few weeks, though, it has become unremarkable, except when viewed against memories of what seems like a long time ago. Metal fences surround the entrance. People walk in through gaps in them, one at a time. Three bikes are chained to the furthest fence. A backpack is chained to each. This still surprises me. When I first worked here, over thirty years ago, an unattended package might be handled by the bomb squad. Someone once had left a bag at a bus stop near my office. Police cleared the buildings for a block in every direction. A robot or something like it blew the bag up. I remember my father telling me about it. Now, people leave bags on benches and at bus stops containing things they are giving away. The backpacks outside the supermarket are not a problem. The guard may or may not be keeping an eye on them. He used to sit by the entrance, vaguely nodding as people went in. Now he is busy scanning customers’ temperature. We’ve always lived with a steady state of vigilance and an undertone of fear. Over the years, what we watch and why we worry seems to continually change.