Get in line

   “I don’t like this, John.  Not at all!”

   My attendant and I were getting back into my van after shopping at Trader Joe’s.  To say the least, it wasn’t your usual trip to the market.  And not because Trader Joe’s isn’t your usual market. 

   It was a recent weekday morning, shortly after 9. I usually don’t shop at Trader Joe’s, but there are things I like there – the frozen pancakes, blintzes and gnocchi, the baby greens and spinach salad with dried cranberries, candied walnuts and blue cheese and the pulled chicken, perhaps a lemon tart – and I decided to go there before going to Sprouts, where I usually shop. When we pulled up, I immediately knew this wouldn’t be a breezy in-and-out. 

   There was a line waiting to get in – what the English call a queue.  I had heard of lines outside of markets recently, but I hadn’t experienced any.  When I got out of the van, I saw that many people in the line had masks or bandanas over their mouth and nose.  Again, I had seen some people in recent days and weeks wearing masks, but not like this.  This was like something out of a dystopian movie or television show. 

   I was secretly hoping a clerk would just let me in, as sometimes happens in such cases, but no such luck.  I went down the line, and a women kindly offered to let me cut in front of her, about halfway down the line.  Even so, I wondered if I really wanted those pancakes. 

   Soon enough, though, I was in front of the line. (Really?  They didn’t just let me, the disabled guy, in?) I saw some people, just arriving, go up to the entrance and then try to enter through the exit, only to be told by a clerk to go to the back of the line.  I heard one clerk saying the wait was averaging a half an hour.  I panicked a bit, wondering if I should just get back in the van and wishing I had come a bit earlier, between 8 and 9, when the store was open exclusively to senior citizens and the disabled (I normally dismiss this as patronizing, and having this so early is ridiculous, but I had happened to get up early and could have left my house earlier).

   Again, the wait turned out to be not long at all, and my attendant and I were in.  My shopping went well – I got everything I wanted, except the lemon tart.  There were even eggs, which I hadn’t planned on getting but happily grabbed, since they tended to be in short supply at Sprouts.  My attendant was a bit upset that she had forgotten to bring gloves and that the store didn’t have them available, but she pulled her sweater over her hands and shopped that way. 

   Things got weird again when it was time to check out.  We waited behind a line of tape on the floor, and the clerk took the cart from us and rang up and bagged my items.  My attendant was then allowed to come forward and then permitted to hand over my debit card.  Emphasis, as my attendant pointed out later, on “allowed” and “permitted.” It felt like we were in prison, lining up for meds or some privilege. 

   “I don’t like being treated like I’m sick…or have cooties,” my attendant said when she got into the van to drive. 

   Me either. 

   (“Cooties?” Do people say “cooties” anymore?)

   Later, at Sprouts, where I couldn’t find sugar and baby corn and wondered if I could have found them at Trader Joe’s and how we’ve become a third world country where basic staples – sugar, rice, eggs - aren’t to be had, we heard a woman arguing with a man. 

   “You should be six feet away from me,” she snapped when he brushed up against her.

   “What?  You talking to me?” the man calmly asked, looking back at the woman. 

   “You need to be six feet away from me,” the woman insisted. 

   “You need to talk to a psych doctor,” the man told her, again calm as can be. 

   Is this where we’re at?  If so, I agreed with my attendant who looked at me and said we should get out of there.

   Indeed, I was happy to get home and to stay there.