It’s COVID

I parked a six pack of beer and a box of chocolate chip cookies behind a gray checkout divider while the tar-colored conveyor belt swept forward.  The belt stopped and started, my goods stuck behind a fender bender of produce, cans of Goya beans, and several packages of cellophane-wrapped chicken breasts.  With nowhere to go, I waited for my exit.

It's COVID: How Can I Use the Farcical Flu to My Advantage? #robertglover #comedy Share on X

Two price checks and a change in cashiers later, it was my turn.  Two items.  Easy. “Twelve dollars and fifty cents,” said the girl, a tall, lean, high school student.

Normally, no matter the cost, I would put the amount on my charge card.  It’s easy and I don’t have to dig around for change.  This time, however, I decided to pay with cash.  I’m not sure why.  Is there a part of me that seeks out conflict in all situations?  A part of me that enjoys arguing with people?  A malevolent gene or an extra twist in my DNA helix to alert me to potential disputes?

Yes.  There is.

I handed her fifteen dollars, expecting to receive two-fifty back.

“Here you go, sir,” she said and handed me two dollar bills.  Without an explanation, she swung around the end of the conveyor belt and double-bagged my beer.

I stared at my hand.  What had just happened?  Had I misheard her?  Was this a new tipping policy the store had implemented?  I decided to be bold.  “Where’s my change?”

“It’s a new policy,” she said, nodding in the direction of a small sign I had missed.  “We don’t give change any more.”

“What?  Why?”

The one word explanation that followed was one I would hear often in the upcoming weeks.  She shrugged.  “COVID.”

By COVID, she meant, of course, COVID 19, aka Coronavirus 2019, aka the Chinese Coronavirus, aka the Wuhan Flu, aka the Hunan Headache, aka the reason I wasn’t going to get my change back.  What else was I in store for?

COVID at the Pool

I’d left my bathing suit at the pool, but I was unconcerned.  They had a lost and found, and this was a private club, not a lot of riffraff.  I expected that someone had turned it in.  After all, it was only a bathing suit, not radioactive waste.

After a full day at the pool, I’d rinsed myself off and hung the suit over a shower rod to dry.  Would it still have been wet when it was found?  Possibly, but only with water, not industrial runoff.  I’d been swimming in a highly chlorinated pool that poisoned bacteria on contact, not New York’s Hudson River.  In short, it was just a wet bathing suit.

I was confident when I walked towards the entrance desk that their usual box of forgotten goodies would contain my suit.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, the picture of politeness.  “I left my bathing suit here a few days ago.  I was wondering if I could look through the lost and found.”

“Wuh wuh-wuh, wuh wuh wuh wuh.”

Fortunately for me, I’d become expert in translating from Mask to English, so I understood her perfectly.  What she really had said was “I’m sorry, we don’t have one.”

“You don’t have one?  Why not?”  She pronounced a word I would hear over and over in subsequent weeks, the universal excuse:

“COVID.”

The farcical flu had claimed another victim, this time a middle-aged orange bathing suit.  I wouldn’t even have an opportunity to bury it properly.

Waiting for Groceries

I had waited over an hour to pick up the groceries.  They were supposed to be ready at four.  It was now a quarter past five.  It’s not like we hadn’t called ahead.  We had.  My wife had even received a text message announcing to the world that our groceries were ready.

I’m not known for my patience.  Sure, I can wait fifteen minutes or so.  I have my phone.  I can check the sports pages or one of my favorite sports blogs.  Beyond fifteen minutes, I tend to get ornery.  At a half hour, I’m crotchety.  At forty-five minutes, I’m cantankerous.  Anything over an hour and I’m apoplectic.  At this point, I was approaching Linda Blair in the The Exorcist.  I wasn’t at the point of vomiting green, but my head was nearly halfway around.

At long last, the groceries arrived alongside a clueless teenage boy, masked to hide his indifference, and to protect him from the Sino-sniffles.

I asked her, “What happened?”

“Sorry, we lost your order.”

“Lost my order?  What?”  I knew what was coming, but I had to ask anyway.  “How could you lose my order?  You sent us a text telling us it was ready!”

Her muffled response:  “COVID.”

Waiting for the Book Store to Open

Looking to spend some of her birthday money on a Warriors graphic novel, my nine-year-old daughter asked for a trip to Barnes & Noble.  Normally open till nine p.m., we rolled into the parking lot a few minutes past six.

The lights were on.  I pulled the door handle.  When it didn’t give right away, I rattled it back and forth several times.  I stopped when I saw my wife’s finger pointing to a sign beside the door.

“Oh no,” I said, “don’t tell me.”

“Yup,” she said.  “COVID.”

I bowed my head.

COVID Recovery

For weeks, I walked around defeated.  The Chinese chill was putting a damper on my usual positive outlook.  All I could think about was what this disease was doing to our society.  Lost in thought one afternoon, I wound up blowing through a stop sign one, not realizing what I had done until the rotating red light and siren forced me to the side of the road.

I didn’t care.  I didn’t move a muscle.  The police officer motioned for me to lower my window.  I could see him thumbing open his pad of tickets.  This was it.  The last syringe.

“Do you know why I stopped you, sir?”

I shook my head, mumbled, “No.”

“You blew past a stop sign.”

Had I?  I’m sure he was right.  What did it matter?  I lifted my head to look at him.  Pushing a boulder uphill would have been easier.  All I could say was, “COVID.”

He nodded.  “I understand.”  He pocketed his tickets.  “Pay attention next time.”

I assured him I would.  What had just happened?  Did he let me go because of COVID?  I couldn’t believe my luck.  Had I dreamt it?  For the first time in weeks, I felt a surge in positivity.  What else could I get away with thanks to the Canton cough?

COVID Abuse

When the alarm went off the next morning, I swatted the sleep button like a fly.  I wasn’t ready to get up.  What could I do?  Fortunately, my groggy brain remembered the universal excuse.  I grabbed for my cell phone.

“I can’t make it in today,” I told my boss.  “COVID.”

“You’re sick?”

I wasn’t about to lie.  “No,” I said.  Was it going to work?  Would he understand?  Was COVID my get-out-of-jail-free card?

“Okay,” he said.  “I get it.  Take the day.”

Yes, it was.

COVID Mania

Oh, the things I plan to do with my ready-made COVID excuse.  What else will I be able to get away with?  The possibilities are endless.  I intend to make the best of it despite lockdown lunacy and mask madness.

Any suggestions?