Navigating the Epidemic

For the first couple of weeks of this pandemic business, I was perfectly happy. As an introvert, not having to interact with people felt like the sudden lifting of a burden I didn't realize I was carrying. As an artist, I am used to working in solitude. A long stretch of sunny spring days: finally, my ideal world!

As government and health officials imposed increasing levels of social and physical distancing, though, things started to get weird. My fellow citizens in this small island community displayed wildly varying levels of paranoia, fear and nonchalance. I came face-to-face with this as my part-time job, in a liquor store, was deemed an essential service. The minimum wage job that I could shrug off and forget when I locked the door at night began to demand more psychic energy.

Customers, some eager to have a captive ear, shared their worries. Even the ones who opted for minimal interaction revealed their anxiety by covering their faces and hands, and moving like frightened rabbits. Suddenly I was cleaning up after each customer, wiping down the counter and POS machine with sanitizing solution. We continue to accept cash, unlike many stores, which does make keeping a two meter distance challenging.

One elderly woman, who was shopping for her neighbours, was in tears as she tried to make decisions. "I don't know what to do," she said repeatedly. A homeless person, trying to return some empties in spite of the sign advising that we were no longer accepting them, also burst into tears and called me a bitch when I refused her service.

I have been working more hours, solo, since a couple of my co-workers quit due to pre-existing concerns over family and health. The well-intended hearts posted around the island, meant to bolster the spirits of front line workers, mean little to me. I wouldn't mind a raise in pay, though.

I am not worried about getting sick. I have a hardy immune system and if I die, I die. But I have a responsibility to my fellow citizens, and so must follow the rules. And because my basic nature is to try to be kind and helpful, I listen, I empathize, I carry boxes to the door. What I do is nothing compared to what healthcare workers are doing.

This past weekend a couple came through the door. They dillied, and dallied, and remarked on what a beautiful island I have. They said they had never been before, and I asked why they were here. "We're boaters!" Docked at the south end, and some nice guy lent them his truck so they could come and get beer. I gave them the stone faced death glare, which they did not appear to notice. I couldn't sleep that night, going over in my mind the anger I felt at their entitled, selfish behaviour.

The next day, the soothing Vivaldi cello concerto playing on the store's sound system was drowned out by the blasting of the Beach Boys. A car was in the parking lot, doors open. After about twenty minutes I snapped, and went out to ask the driver to turn it down. He was slumped over in the seat, apparently sleeping. After several "Excuse me's", which were not heard, I made a error of judgement and tried to close the car door. (Never touch a heavily tattooed man's car.)  Long story short, it ended with him following me into the store, threatening to sue me, claiming I had broken his leg. I suggested he call the cops. (He didn't.)

Again, a sleepless night. I worry about the breakdown of society. Nerves are frazzled all round. I am just one retail worker on a tiny island, surrounded by beauty and calm. One might think it was the perfect place to wait out the pandemic. But the virus affects us all, insidiously worming its way through our minds, causing mistrust, anger, fear, panic. Yes, there is also kindness, patience, forgiveness, but not an unlimited supply. How will we heal from not just the physical, but the emotional and social ravages of the epidemic? I have no answers.

All the photos were taken by me in the last couple of weeks.