This was started well over a month ago, so things have changed pretty drastically since, but

Hung out with friends last night, outside, in their yard, not masked. it felt like normal for a little while, which is a welcome change. today I am going to an outdoor concert to sling cheese plates, so it's a work/play situation. Little bits and bobs of normal are starting to populate our days. It's mostly a welcome respite but the anxiety creeps in at the oddest moments. And forget about normal when it comes to masks. I am so used to wearing one (I have been working in very crowded public places for the entirety of this shit show) that I sometimes put it on as soon as I get in the car, alone. Or I absentmindedly put it on when I get out of the car to walk to the house. it's become such a habit and there's still so much uncertainty (no thanks to our government for a complete lack of leadership and guidance on this FFS) that it's hard to know what to do in every circumstance. I still wear one when I go into places where there are kids, because vaccines aren't available for them yet and I am trying not to be insensitive or cocky. just spoke to a friend the other day whose wife lost both of her parents  to Covid in a matter of two weeks because they were so twisted by Fox News that they refused to get vaccines despite being in their seventies and fully eligible for months. I wonder when the class action lawsuits will start. Also finally saw a nurse friend who is forever changed from having worked through this whole thing in a Covid ward. She definitely has PTSD. She said she had never been in a situation with a death rate so high among patients under her care. I know I am not back to full normal, but whatever I am dealing with is nothing like that, thank the gods. Still feel very gaslit in certain company, of course, but I try to avoid that company as much as possible. Mostly I just feel relief.

I was standing in the wine aisle, checking tags and doing the front-and-face boogie. Theresa, the older of the two clerks, was explaining the different scratch-offs to an impatient young woman while baby-faced Megan set out the greasy, noxious, awful excuse for pizza they call Hunt Br0thers, which has invaded all of the gas stations and convenience stores in Georgia and the surrounding states.

A couple of Mexican guys were scouting the snack aisle while their friend gassed up a big, beat up, white F250 full of tools and equipment outside. Basically it was the same as every second Monday had been for the last 13 months, me the only person in the store with a mask and buttons on my shirt, everybody else going about their business but definitely taking note of me like I was a cop in a biker bar.

I went in the cooler to count the beer back stock. Had to jam a flat box in it so I didn't get locked in. Theresa said the handle finally broke all the way and she didn't know when Sam was going to fix it. Megan said the guy from United got stuck in there for fifteen minutes the other day and he was hoppin' mad. She thought it was hilarious. Goddamn Northeast guy took two more of my spaces on the shelf and my driver still hadn't picked up the NA that should never have been delivered. When I came out, I started heading to the front to talk to Theresa about the Northeast guy. All of a sudden another guy comes in, loud and fast.

"And you better tell your uh-MEE-go, to come and get his pavers, too. He knows what he did. There ain't nothing to be done now- I got somebody else to finish the job. But he owes me." 

I stop back in the wine aisle. I can see over the top of the Chardonnay that it's a white guy, mid-forties, tan. He's probably five foot eight, not big, but confident. He is wearing dark sunglasses and he's yelling in the direction of the two Mexican guys. I can't see the guys' faces, but they don't say anything. One is by the door and the other one is giving his money to Megan for the pizza. 

"That's right, he says, even louder. He knows what he did. He started a job two months ago that was supposed to be a two week job." 

Megan, smiling sweetly, gives the Mexican guy his change and he heads for the door. The guy keeps on, talking real loud to nobody, everybody. The Mexican guys leave without acknowledging him. There are two other people shopping, plus me, Megan, and Theresa. "He knows what he did. He left us. Tore up the whole yard with and left it." Megan is nodding slowly, sympathetically. "I know he's busy. Hell, they're WORKING all over the place. I see them trucks. But word gets around fast. if you don't do the job that'll stop. SOMEbody's gonna find him at the bottom of the lake." 

The two customers check out wordlessly at Theresa's register. Other customers are coming in, nobody saying anything but every one of them looking to Theresa to see what's up while this guy continues to honk his grievances. She keeps right on, stocking cigarettes in the rack above the register, smiling stiffly and giving a small nod to each new face, not even looking at the guy. He finally sputters out.

"Do you feel better now, hon?" Megan asks, matter-of factly, after a few seconds of quiet. Everyone else in the store is tense, and nobody knows what to do. The fact that Megan is the mother of two small children is not lost on me in this moment.

He doesn't reply but as he turns to leave he realizes that the guys are still out there at the pump. His hand is on the door and he draws back. "See now I gotta wait because I don't wanna get into it with them." She nods again, going back to the pizza station. I am smirking, thankful for my mask, and Theresa and I lock eyes for a split second, hers rolling almost imperceptibly. He stands there, awkwardly, while the Mexican guys eat and talk and laugh with each other, truck doors open. They are not in a hurry. It takes me almost ten minutes longer to finish putting the order together, and only then does the F250 pull out of the lot. Loud guy storms out, mad all over again, and as I am backing my car out he peels loudly out onto the road and speeds toward town. I feel like the girls at the gas station haven't heard the last of this.