This is a fictional story. All names, places, and viruses are used fictitiously. Resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, past or present, are intentional.
If you haven’t read from the beginning, please start at Chapter 1 here.
***
Due Date: 116 days away
The worst-case scenario. That’s where I went. Constantly.
Which line should I choose?
Things I didn’t second guess before. Principles. I used to always pick the self-checkout lines. They moved faster.
But somehow, I got skittish. I questioned everything.
I’d have to touch the touchscreen in the self-checkout lane. But then, well, I’d have to touch it in the normal lane two.
No way to win.
I glanced back at the self-checkout lines. They were growing.
I kept my spot in line.
“I know you’re probably not wanting to do this, but can you help a little boy out?” Liz had said.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Kenneth could use some bread, if you can find some. He wants grilled cheese.”
That’s how I got there.
The man in front of me was about my mom’s age, not in the high-risk age group, but not young either.
“I’m sorry, sir. You can only buy one of these. One per person.”
It was an 18-pack of eggs. The cashier looked like she was 16.
The man in front of me shrugged. “Okay. Whatever we have to do.”
“And only one of these. I’m so sorry.” She put his second spray bottle of Clorox behind her with the eggs.
Another young worker stood by the bagging area. “Man, you should come back to the back with us, stocking.”
“I know, I know,” our cashier said. “I hate saying it.”
“You’d think they could buy more than one. Like steaks? Like you know everyone’s going to buy more than one steak. What about, like a family of four? What are they supposed to do?”
“I don’t know. It’s so people aren’t all selfish.” Then, realizing what she said, “And I don’t mean you, sir. I mean, like, everyone else.”
Everyone else. There they were again. They kept sneaking up on me.
“You should come back to stocking,” her co-worker said again.
“It’s okay,” the customer said, handing her a ten. “I get it.”
As the man moved away from the register, counting his change, I placed my two loaves of bread on the conveyor belt.
I smiled and looked the cashier in the eyes. “How are you today?”
It didn’t help. She saw my bread.
“You can only get one of these.”
“Ah, I was worried about that, after I saw him with his eggs. Bummer.”
She placed my loaf with the eggs and Clorox.
“Actually, can I buy some eggs?” I looked over at the gentleman about to pull his cart away. “Would you buy my bread? And I’ll trade you?”
“Sure, sure. Thank you,” he said.
“Teamwork,” the co-worker said.
“Can I get the cleaner too?”
Our cashier just smiled and did the deal.
“So this is yours then.” She handed the bag with the eggs and spray bottle to the man in front of me.
Then he bought my bread for me and started to walk away.
“Sir, your change.” She held out two dollar bills and some coins.
“Oh. Thank you.” He turned to me. “I owe you. How much do I owe you?”
“Don’t worry about it. Really.”
“No, please. At least take this.”
With that, he held my hand, pulled it close to his other hand, and dropped the coins into my palm, a few cents to let me know I mattered to him in that moment.
And for a moment that extended into the care ride home, all I could think about was how social distancing was bringing our world together, like the weather on a hot summer day. We all had something to talk about together, common experiences to share, opportunities to help one another, and…
Wait, did he touch my hand? Did his coins contaminate my pocket? Did I just get the virus from him?
