It felt like Red Square.
Eyes watching you, taking note and taking names.
THOSE LAZY, HAZY, CRAZY DAYS OF THE PANDEMIC BY STEVEN MCBREARTY 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 130 PREVIEW
We stood lined up outside the Handy Andy supermarket in suburban Austin, Texas, the line snaking around the far wall of the building, an estimated 20-minute wait. We stood sedately, meekly, self-consciously, grudgingly, at six-foot intervals marked off by strips of red masking tape, like highway markers. We were an edgy, restive crew, anxious to get into the supermarket and buy our groceries, assuming there would be anything worth buying. One time I got home with Cream of Cauliflower soup, a desperation purchase, possibly the foulest-tasting food concocted by mankind.
Some line members wore face masks or face coverings, most did not. It was still early in the pandemic, there were no mask mandates yet. I found myself looking suspiciously at those wearing masks, as if they were the ones spreading the virus. I fought that suspicion.
Nervous chatter leaked out as the line moved forward six-feet by six-feet. We shuffled along fitfully, red stripe to red stripe, in herky-jerky cadence.
You got to know the back of the head of the person in front of you in line, extraordinarily well. The person behind you was a mystery. You only heard their chatter. Sometimes, you would twist around awkwardly and get a glimpse.
A young Hispanic woman in a crisp red Handy Andy uniform shirt and a name tag stood to the side of the line, monitoring the situation, providing an organizing and supporting role, answering questions.
At one point, she stepped forward to address the line, as if we were at a Six Flags or Disney World adventure ride. (“Keep your seat-belts securely fastened at all times. Do not stand up while the ride is in motion.”) She was reassuring, authoritative but not overbearing. Her voice was strong and firm and melodious. Perhaps the confidence she gained from this experience would mark a breakthrough in her life and career. Finally, I reached the front of the line, and waved gratefully to her. She waved back.
Inside the supermarket, a Handy Andy staffer wearing latex gloves and a red mask, and with a plastic container of disinfectant, pushed a grocery cart over to me. “Clean!” he said, gesturing to the cart.
He reminded me to maintain the six-foot separation from other shoppers, and to wrap things up quickly, 30 minutes shop, max. I don’t know how they enforced that particular stipulation. (“Alert!--loose shopper exceeding time limit.”)
The store felt like a forbidden zone, like wandering around Red Square. You knew eyes were watching you, eyes that were taking note and taking names.