Thursday, March 26, 2020

I stand in line outside the supermarket, waiting. The guard, who has often appeared to be dozing before, has snapped into action, glorying in actually having something to do. When one person leaves, he lets another person in. When two people leave, he lets two people in. He won’t let a mother and her teenage son enter together when only one other person has left. The son must wait. I am behind him. A couple leaves a moment later. The son and I enter. “Stop,” the guard says to me imperiously. “Sir, you shall not pass.” (That doesn’t sound as daunting in Hebrew, and I doubt he knows who Gandalf is.) The guy behind me says “Look there -- two people left.” To our right, the couple are heading away. The man is much larger than the woman, and possibly blocked her from the guard’s view. The guard looks and nods. “You are correct.” He makes a grand gesture. “Welcome, sir.” I enter. Once inside, I feel like I have to shop quickly, since each moment that I take delays someone else in line. There are few people at the meat counter, but I still have to wait. When the butcher gestures at me, I step forward. “Two meters!” he barks. I step back. I tell him what I want. He pulls some chicken out of the case, wraps it, and steps far back from the counter. I step forward and take it. It’s not what I wanted. I probably got the name wrong. I get it anyway. I buy more groceries than I expected, and feel guilty when I realize that I’m getting twelve items in the ten-items-or-less line. The cashier doesn’t seem to mind as she chatters endlessly at me in Ethiopian (I think) accented Hebrew that I can’t understand at all. I step to the right of the plexiglas, pay, and leave. Of course, as I step outside again, it starts to rain.