In January 2020, I had a troubling dream. Mai and I were walking on the San Francisco waterfront and stumbled upon a group of passersby watching the Bay. Some pointed fingers to the water; others were talking to each other nonchalantly. Intrigued, I turned my head and spotted a giant mass at the horizon. A black tsunami, dwarfing the Golden Gate Bridge and apparently on its way to engulf it. I warned Mai that we needed to find shelter right away, grabbed her hand, and together we ran for safety. I felt a strong sense of urgency, yet I was not afraid: somehow, I knew we would be safe. But I could not grasp why everyone else seemed oblivious to the danger.
It took a few months before the dream’s significance became obvious. In a quarantine-induced coronavirus news binge, I stumbled upon a French editorial piece that compared the upcoming surge of COVID-19 patients overflowing the country’s hospitals to a tsunami. The author then mused on the fact that only a handful of Japanese words ever made it into Moliere’s language: tsunami joined judo, karate, sushi, sake, hara-kiri, and kamikaze in a very exclusive linguistic club. So French.
We are now entering our second week of ‘sheltering in place.’ San Francisco has experienced a slow rising tide of COVID-19 cases — nowhere close to a tsunami, but everyone is bracing for it.
This morning, I’m going grocery shopping. We still have a week’s worth of toilet paper for the whole family and we could live comfortably on the canned and frozen food we stored at home, but I am not ready to give up salads just yet. So Californian.
I have a master plan. By showing up at 8am on a Monday, I’m going to beat the crowds and find the store replenished. Delivery trucks will have unloaded their cargo and diligent staff will have refilled the shelves, all during the wee hours.
The parking lot is half empty. Or maybe half full — hard to tell. What am I going to find inside?
The first aisle at the store entrance looks like it was pillaged by a horde of hungry shoppers. My dreams of cornucopia come crashing down. I have to look up at the signage to remember which precious grocery items are normally stocked here. Pasta and rice. Lost in the Saharan desolation of endless empty shelves, a small blue box looks at me. The only survivor of the pillage: a pound of orzo.
We never buy orzo.
Aisle by aisle, I search the store with my phone in hand – handwritten grocery lists are so passé. Many shelves are bare. Today I shall not bring home any rice, coconut milk, romaine lettuce, paper tissues, dark chocolate, clementine, salmon, ginger roots, or the most important item on the list: chicken.
Fellow shoppers are applying various levels of ‘social distancing’. Some carefully avoid proximity with anyone, waiting until the entire aisle is clear then rushing to snatch the coveted item and scurrying away before anyone else approaches. Others don’t seem to care at all, brushing against other folks in complete ignorance – or defiance – of the current psychosis. I’m somewhere in the middle: I avoid getting too close to folks but I’m not enforcing the 6-foot distance recommended by the CDC. Shame on me.
The cleaning supplies aisle is almost bare, so I feel very fortunate to find toilet paper rolls and, even more scarce, flushable wipes. A big sign warns me to take ‘only one per customer’. But with two preschoolers at home, one bag is not going to last a week. I throw two in the cart and cross my fingers in hope that the cashiers are lenient.
At last, the salad display. Well stocked, to my great relief. I know exactly which greens I want: Apple Harvest, Greek, Southwestern, Cobb, Asian, and Louie. Deciphering the expiration dates printed in tiny font requires picking up each salad container. I often try several to find one that doesn’t expire within a day or two. My Spidey senses detect a murderous stare: a lady stands about six feet behind me, waiting for safe access to her salad. Every time I touch a container and put it back on shelf, I imagine her flagging it as contaminated. Like a memory game for adults. One with high stakes, special pandemic edition.
Time to pay. My cart is too full for self-service checkout, so I locate the only cashier and take position at the back of the line. Ahead of me, an old Asian lady. Her cart overflows. On top, two packs of toilet paper rolls. That’s one too many, I think. She chats with another person in line, confiding that people have been mean to her, just because she’s Asian. Of course, I read news headlines about coronavirus-triggered racism. But how could anyone direct their angst towards this short white-haired lady who could be my kids’ grandma? Chilling.
Her conversation over, Grandma starts fidgeting in place. She turns to me with a begging smile. “Would you mind watching my cart if I go get something? I’ll be right back.”
“Sure. Go ahead,” I respond. Why not? The line is moving super slow anyway.
She zooms out and disappears at the corner of the aisle with remarkable speed.
A moment later she reappears holding a supersized chicken and lays it delicately in her cart. Wait a minute. A chicken? I’m quite sure there was none left in the meat/poultry department when I looked, five minutes ago. How did she pull this off? I must find out.
“Where did you find chicken?”
“It’s not on display,” she whispers while leaning towards me, as if to share the location of a long-lost pirate treasure. “You have to ask for it.” With a mischievous smile, she adds “Go now. I’ll watch your cart.”
When I return with the precious chicken, the man who now stands behind me in the checkout line smirks. “Chicken is like gold around here.”
“Chicken is good,” I respond flatly. “You can make a lot of delicious dishes”. Was this a veiled racist comment about our predominantly Asian neighborhood? My gut says yes.
Meanwhile, Grandma has reached the cashier and unloads her cart. She turns to me, waiving a twelve-pack of toilet paper rolls: “Do you want it?” When the store says ‘one per customer’ they really mean it. So much for leniency.
“No, thanks. I already have one,” I smile. Reluctantly, she hands the TP to the cashier, then pays. Before walking out the store, she turns around and waves goodbye. I wave back.
Checkout time. Can I get away with two bags of flushable butt wipes? My tactic is deceptively simple: I place the allowed bag of wipes among the first items on the conveyor belt — not at the very beginning so it doesn’t draw attention — and the forbidden bag of wipes near the end. In theory, by the time the cashier gets to the second bag she will have forgotten about the first one, which will already be out of sight in a grocery bag. And it works!
I am now a scofflaw.
Only one way back to the parking lot with a shopping cart: the elevator. I share the ride with a man wearing a surgical mask. As good social distancers, we stay in opposite corners. When the doors open, he speed-walks out. I take a leisurely pace.
Time to head back home. On the menu tonight: chicken. With orzo.
~Cedric, April 2020
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