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Uncle Chubby and the Marlboro Man Aren’t My Friends
There’s still no “middle” in the mask debate, only snowflakes and maniacs
The Marlboro man was standing too close. I could see his leather-jacketed arm in my periphery while the Wawa cashier rang up my purchases. She was taking too long.
Her boyfriend, or some creep trying to pick her up, or her uncle, or just some big, random dude was four-and-a-half feet to my left and their chat was interfering with her concentration.
As the Marlboro man edged closer in anticipation that my transaction was nearly done, I stepped well away from the counter. The cashier, secure behind her plexiglass, meditated over whatever riddle preventer her from rendering a total.
Plastering myself against the far wall (sending what I thought was a social-distancing cue) did nothing to help the cashier’s concentration or repel the encroachers.
Coming to Terms With Being Back in the World
Since I very rarely leave my house, I see all strangers as mortal threats. My wife, who has assumed all hunter-gatherer roles, has been inured to the absolute lack of consideration we give one another in public.
