My mom once said, you can stick anything out for a year, but how about two?
I went in to get a sandwich at Subway the other day and put my order in over the protective wall of tables and three-foot-high plexiglass sheet separating me from the manager. Making small talk, I noted how happy he’d be when the restrictions of Covid were lifted.
“What did you say?” he said in mask-talk.
“I SAID I BET YOU’LL BE GLAD…” repeating my comment, but a lot louder this time.
“Oh, I heard that part,” he butted in. “They are already lifted, except for the glass partition,” he reported. “We have to keep our bathroom closed, but other than that we are good to go. ’Course, we can’t put anything on the tables. Sauce for you today?”
“No thanks, I’m trying to cut down,” I replied in a lame attempt at humor. As I paid up and went towards a nearby booth, the owner piped in again.
“Sir. Sorry. That booth is off limits. Too close to the vents they say. Airborne something or other. Can you sit at another one?”
“Sure,” I answered, being the easy-going retiree that I am, and moved around the caution tape crossing off all but one booth. “How about this one?” I added, being the slightly sarcastic easy-going retiree that I am.
As I turned to the booth, I accidentally bumped a customer that had arrived and was standing patiently behind a few others, waiting to order.
“Excuse me sir. Yes, you, the one with no sauce,” the owner said loudly, “You have to stay on your X. Please stand on your X. Six feet, sir, those are the regulations.”
“Oh, sorry!” I called back, being the slightly annoyed, easy-going retiree that I am. “I’ve already ordered and, well, I was just trying to get to my booth, but there are no X’s going that direction, so I thought I’d…” my voice dribbling off as I realized I was breathing air from someone else’s special area.
I looked back again towards my booth, but a couple had already taken it. They had lots of sauces. I stared at the floor for the longest time, trying to figure out what X they had stepped on to get to my booth, the only booth. There were no X’s going over there, so I figured it had to be the sauce. THE SECRET WAS IN THE SAUCE.
“Sir,” I yelped over the line, “I’ve decided I’ll have some sweet onion sauce on my sandwich. Can I get some…”
Several unauthorized stares came my way, so I took a few steps back, to eat in a corner, trying to cross my legs like an X to camouflage my non-Covid standing position. Since Subway sandwiches are shaped like a breaded version of a popsicle, I thought I might be able to just stand there, boothless, peel back the Subway paper and eat my sandwich like a Push-Up.
That idea went over like a screen door in a submarine.
“Hey buddy! You there impersonating a pretzel with the Push-Up! You got a mask? Have to wear a mask if you’re gonna eat a sandwich with no sauce standing up!”
“Ok,” I answered, being the slightly demoralized, easy-going retiree that I am. “Got it. Eat my sandwich with a mask through a straw with my legs crossed standing in an isolated corner, boothless with no sauce.”
I gathered in the tender smell of Clorox wipes wafting through the air, with a hint of strawberry, perhaps grapefruit. I took it all in, lifting my shoulders, even squaring them off like the aromatic easy-going retiree that I am. It was an empowering breath. I felt thankful for that clear smell, that it was not interrupted by sweet onion or Covid. I can stick anything out for a year, I thought, maybe even two if I leave off the sauce.