Sheila, during these troubled times and being susceptible to pneumonia, is a stay-at-home partner and I do the shopping.
Nothing unusual about this arrangement I hear you say, ensuring that I don’t get a big head, but on my return from the excursion to the market this Thursday, when I complained about a bout of the sniffles and was looking for some sympathy, the nurse in Sheila surfaced and suggested I lie down for an hour.
‘You’re so caring,’ I coughed elbow-ward, crawling to the couch and thinking I should update my eulogy. ‘True,’ she reassured, ‘and by the time you wake up the LCBO should be open and we’re low in booze.’
Sheila is a professional, concerned citizen; she reads the Covid-19 hotline every day for the latest news on what’s happening and especially what’s happening to essential services, and the LCBO, doing their bit, has shortened their opening hours and now doesn’t let the followers of the church of self medication in before 11 a.m.
Humbling yourself to the control of said monopoly at this time presents you with a living example of the gate keeper theory. It’s bad enough that you have to pay for the privilege of buying someone else’s idea of potable potions at egregiously inflated prices but now, during hard times, you also have to salute the corporation’s Colonel of Crowd Control taking command outside the store.
Allow me, dear reader, to paint you the picture. Thursday morning, overcast, just above freezing, 10:59 a.m., one private security guard – sans mask and gloves, never been to war, never stopped a criminal, never watches a movie where there’s smoking, never completed his PhD thesis on crowd control in times of crisis, no awards of distinction – determines when you shall enter. We call it PTP, the ‘Power Trip Perquisite.’
‘Hey you!’ bellows the uniform relishing his PTP moment. ‘Yes, you there in the worn duffle coat, shuffling towards the store, can’t you see there’s a line here? Straighten up and get to the back.’
We’re talking three unfortunate souls wondering if it would be better to get the virus than subject ourselves to this dressing down. Or jump this guy, doesn’t seem to be sporting a gun; how difficult could it be?
Anyhow, more sober (well, duh!) minds prevail and we wait, the dutiful six feet apart, for the signal, the officious wave of the hand, that allows us to enter mecca.
Once in you can’t help but notice a large bottle of hand sanitizer, immovably duct taped to a stand. So that’s where the early adapters got their hand sanitizer, you surmise. You’re tempted to ask to see the washroom.
Now, I’m one of those who takes the reusable bag on my shopping forays. Can’t fault me for that but it means that, today, the cashier, yes, the guy/gal who basically does nothing but bag your stuff, now does less than nothing cause they’re not allowed to put booze in the customer’s bag. Since I use a credit card and tap to pay, I asked him if he’d like me to hand myself the receipt?
Now pause dear reader and drink in this actual scene entitled: Living the six feet apart rule1 The local bank branch handles it a little differently; they mark ‘X’s on the floor at the appropriate intervals. Wouldn’t you distance yourself from this choice of symbol? Couldn’t X mark the spot where somebody cashed in before they could get their cash? at the LCBO. The director hails, ‘Action!’
I’m next in line, the customer at the cashier, all 6’ 4” of him, is herding his 8 beer can purchase. I neighbourly mention that he chose well, that’s a favourite brew of mine. That woke him up.
‘Stand back!’ he belched (well, he is a beer drinker). I almost lost my place in the copy of Food and Drink I was reading. ‘Get back 6 feet,’ he continued to bark as the cashier busied himself with the paper bags.
‘You’re 6 inches away from the cashier,’ I rebutted thinking I’d wasted a compliment on his taste in IPA.
His look said he wasn’t in the mood for logic. Or casual wit. I checked out the exit and wondered which bottle of wine I’d sacrifice on his head. Or would a directed cough handle it?
The tension eased but I had already decided to reverse to the Vintages section and look at labels for another 20 minutes.
Before leaving these hallowed halls of hootch, I did a survey. I was interested in what flies off the shelves in these tortured times. What’s the booze equivalent of toilet paper? Well, it turns out taste takes a back seat to penuriousness (don’t bother looking it up, it means you’re cheap). All the bottles that were $2.00 off were off the shelves. Dom Perignon was in great supply. I thought that if you had a good chance of not coming through the other side of this pandemic that you’d treat yourself to something you’d always had a thirst for but never the financing. ‘What the hell, the living has to pay my next VISA bill now, go for it.’
Cheers.
| 1. | ↑ | The local bank branch handles it a little differently; they mark ‘X’s on the floor at the appropriate intervals. Wouldn’t you distance yourself from this choice of symbol? Couldn’t X mark the spot where somebody cashed in before they could get their cash? |