In the Presence of Greatness

Love in the Time of Corona #2

After a Sunday of reading, writing, conference calls about work, and meal prep for the week, it was time for a quick run to the neighborhood market for some essentials. Dish soap. Bread. Mint chocolate chip ice cream. A short list to keep my exposure to a minimum.

Walking through the parking lot: social distancing will not be a problem here. The parking lot is practically empty. My heart goes out to the family that runs the King of Food Chinese restaurant. Their health department inspection scores are always borderline at best. I hope they can hold things together, keep things clean, and not lose their business during the coming craziness.

Entering the automatic doors, I see a hastily printed sign announcing per family limits on all the usual staples. It's a noble try, but there are an awful lot of families in this neck of the woods. I'm grateful for the run I made at the beginning of the month that filed my pantry before the shortages began.

There's one woman running a register. The rest of the staff are out in the aisles, cleaning. The cashier greets me with "Hi, Hon." That's the way we roll uptown.

I head straight for the cleaning supplies. Everything with the word "Bleach" on the label is gone, but still plenty of dish soap, both brand name Dawn and the blue generic liquid. I pick up a bottle of Dawn, but the top shelf stuff feels foreign. No sense changing now. I throw a bottle of blue Glo into my basket.

As I walk past the empty shelves where the TP used to be, there is a page over the PA. "Joe, there's a lady on the phone asking if we have any toilet paper in stock." I smile quietly to myself.

Cold cuts and cheese. Still plenty in stock. Lots of soup and sandwiches this week. Bizarrely, all the buttermilk is gone. There will be plenty of biscuits in the neighborhood this week. No eggs either. Pandemic or not, breakfast is still the most important meal of the day. 

The freezer case looks reasonably well- stocked. There are only a handful of the sausage and egg burritos I prefer. I usually grab one for each work day so I don't have to think too hard in the morning, but that would clean them out, so I get two of the good ones and three of the 99 cent ones, hoping that actual chickens were involved in their manufacture.

Hallelujah! Mint chocolate chip is still in good supply. My drug of choice. So much for losing weight during the plague.

I approach the bread racks and immediately think of the Soviet Union. There might be 12 loaves left. It's the gummy white bread that I usually try to avoid, but PB & J are featured prominently in my menu this week, so I grab a loaf, trying not to squish it as I place it on top of my basket.

A grandmother, daughter, and grandson are huddled together, picking out frozen dinners. The child can barely see into the case, so he grabs the side and rests his chin on it to peer down into it.

"Boy, if you don't stop touching things..." Mom's warning has real teeth and the child steps back away into the center of the aisle. Mother and daughter exchange a look. 

"Put your hands in your pockets and keep them there," Granny warns. That boy is going to get the scrubbing of his life when he gets home.

No line at the checkout, but it's late on Sunday and most of the damage has already been done. She is wearing multiple piercings, multi-colored hair, vinyl gloves, and look that tells the story of a work day that has taken its toll.

"Hi, Hon. Find everything?" We both laugh at the idea, but I have to admit that yes, I got everything on my list.

"You've had a hell of a day."

"Oh, yes. The whole world has gone crazy. I was afraid to come in, but ain't nobody going to feed my kids if I don't work"

I have paid sick days, personal time, and vacation at my job. I don't know what to say, so I just smile and not, hoping I appear sympathetic. She scans the bread last and lays it carefully on the top of my bag.

"Well, I sure appreciate you being here."

"Honey, I know. Everybody does. But you feel like obligation, you know? Where are all these people going to find food if we're not here?"

Now, I'm really speechless. I look again at the raggedy hair. The skin is too young to be so rough. The teeth are uneven. Her posture betrays years spent working on her feet. The accent is pure Kentucky hillbilly. I see a dozen clues that make me think I know exactly who I'm talking to before the first sentence is completed. 

I am full of shit.

This is not some back-woods cracker. This woman is a hero.

I am a know-it-all liberal in the presence of authentic greatness.

Humbled, I thank her again as she slips the receipt into my bag with a gloved hand.

"OK, Hon. You have a good day. Be careful."

Be careful. Out in eastern Kentucky, that's how they say good bye. It caught me up short the first time I traveled to Hazzard, but I've come to love it. It says, "It's a dangerous world, and I care about you. I don't want anything to happen to you." I've adopted it as my own farewell. She's showed me just how deep that caring can run. 

She taught me to care enough to look again. To see beyond my own bigotry. I'll be more careful, Hon. I promise. You be careful too. It's a better world with you in it.

When I unpacked my groceries, my white bread was perfect. Not even a dent.