One Per Customer

1.

Where did you go?
The grocery store.
It's not Friday. You said you would only go once a week, on Fridays.
We had no lettuce. All the vegetables were almost gone.
We agreed to limit all trips outside the house. You should have at least asked me.
I'm sorry.
It's not about sorry. It's about safety. Prevention. Take off your shoes and wipe them down.
Don't you think--
I'm not debating any of this. These clothes go straight into the washer and you into the shower.
What about the produce?
Leave it on the porch. We'll handle later.
I'm sorry.
Just get into the shower.

2.

Mask on? Check. Clorox wipes in my jacket pocket? Check. Exit the car. Approach cart rack outside the front doors with caution. Choose cart. Wipe cart handle thoroughly. No garbage can in view, toss Clorox wipe into cart. Pull the cart free and check the doors. No one entering or exiting, looks clear. Enter the store. Quick scan: two cashiers, three customers, two produce workers, one floral department worker. All have masks except one customer who is leaning intently over the bananas. No bananas this week then, aim the cart as far away from the maskless customer as possible. Once in the produce department, park cart at the end of potato stand. Grab seven plastic bags from the roll next to the russets. Move carefully around the various produce displays, filling the bags. Maneuver back to the cart and deposit bags, taking care to not set them atop the used wipe. Grip the cart handle tightly and steer out of the produce department, heart racing and face coated in sweat. One department down, two more plus seven aisles of dry groceries to go.
You can do this.
You got this.

3.

There was one box of dishwasher soap. I wanted to take it, but I felt guilty. Like someone else might need it more.
That's fine, we can do dishes by hand. Not a big deal.
But it was silly, right? How badly could someone need dishwasher soap?
Picture a frazzled mother with four screaming kids. Think about how it would be for her if she couldn't use the dishwasher. Now pretend that last box went to her.
That's a nice thing to imagine.
You made someone's day better.
All thanks to the needs of the modern dishwasher.

4.

No mask on the teenage boy stocking the dairy. Should I alert management? Presumably they know. I saw the store manager up front by the cash registers when I came in. He's giving the boy's behavior his tacit approval. They want you to believe teenage boys are the worst. Confident that they will live forever, unable to fear anything they have yet to experience. For the record I don't think teenage boys are the worst. There's no one demographic worse than another. Ignorance and selfishness are individual choices. I should say something to management. I should shop elsewhere, somewhere where everyone is required to wear a mask. I won't. This is the closest store. I like the people that work here. I don't want to go further, to travel outside my local neighborhood. The boy is stocking the non-organic milk right now. That's not a product I buy. I buy organic milk and this week I don't need any. What else has he touched? I try to remember if the virus can transmit from surfaces. I seem to recall that it's a small likelihood but I can't trust my memory. So much conflicting information. I swerve my cart wide to avoid the boy and proceed down the aisle, my heart beating just a little too fast. He's probably a good kid. I don't want to see him as the enemy. But I do. I do I do I do.

5.

On each aisle they've put down these one way arrow floor stickers to direct traffic. So you can only go one way on an aisle because they are too narrow for people to safely pass each other. It makes sense, right? But I didn't notice them at first and went up the snack food aisle the wrong way. Halfway up there was a woman, late thirties or early forties I guess, pushing a cart. She gave me a death stare and nodded her head towards the floor. That's when I saw the floor stickers. I felt so terrible, like I was just the stupidest, most ignorant creature on this planet. I left the store and sat in my car in the parking lot until I saw her come out. I watched her load her groceries into her car and leave. Only then could I manage to go back in and do my shopping. That was a week ago. Every night when I'm trying to go to sleep I see her death stare and anxiety overtakes me. Sometimes it's several hours before I fall asleep. I can't stop reliving that moment. Terrified that in my shame and fear I'll forget to breathe, I'll fall asleep and completely forget how air works, forget I don't need to consciously remember to breathe, it's instinctual, I don't have to picture the air and all it contains entering and exiting my body. Tomorrow I need to go shopping again and I'm fearful I'll run into her. I don't want to go shopping, tomorrow or ever. There is no nightlight bright enough to erase the mistakes I've made.

6.

One per customer. That's funny, the idea of these one per customer items. Not a single one of them is in stock. No sanitizer. No wipes. No toilet paper or paper towels. No yeast, flour or sugar. Who is buying all of this? Get in the car, drive to another store. Same situation. Fellow shoppers, hollow-eyed, shoulders slumped in resigned despair. I know it will be no better at any other store but I drive to four more anyway. The driving lets me pretend I'm engaging in purposeful action. Lets me forget that I didn't think it necessary to stock up on supplies. That I didn't want to be part of the panic, that I was smarter, above the fray. With each empty shelf my shoulders sag a little more. By the fourth store I look no different than my fellow shoppers. My stomach growls and there is a sour acidic taste in my mouth. There is food in each store. I don't recognize the brands. This seemed funny just a week ago. People having spare rooms full of toilet paper. People baking bread for the first time and failing. At the fifth and last store I hold a can of chunky vegetable soup. The only one left on the shelf. I put it back. Someone who doesn't know how to cook needs it more than me. They might as well make all canned goods one per customer too. The shelves are mostly empty anyway. I smell the sourness of my breath beneath my mask. I can't do this. Not today. Maybe not ever.