Thursday, October 22nd, 2020

The butcher sits outside the supermarket with his thermos and cigarette. His break is between 4:30 and 5. I see him when I go downstairs for a yogurt and an apple. A couple of plastic containers rest beside him on the stone planter. A plastic bag from the supermarket is at his feet. I can’t see what is in any of them. A teenager with ostentatious headphones rolls past us on a scooter. He sings Springsteen’s “I’m on Fire” off-key. He may have cranked the headphones so loud that he can’t hear his own voice. Inside the supermarket, I translate for the customer ahead of me. She only speaks English. Fortunately, I know the Hebrew phrases she needs. “Another bag, please?” And I can translate what the cashier is saying. “This is a half-shekel piece, not five shekels. Do you have another five shekels?” She does. She takes a while to get organized and head out after she’s paid. As the cashier rings me up, I shift to the head of the line, past the plastic barrier. The cashier scrubs her hands with alcohol gel as I stand there. My purchases are out of reach. She sees this and slides them over to me. She only touches the yogurt with a fingernail. She picks the apple up by its stem. As I head out, the butcher finishes his break and stands. His apron is faintly stained. That’s why he wears it. The rest of his clothes are pristine.