Yesterday I went to the grocery store, armed with an N-95 and hand sanitizer to protect the world from my lingering covid cough.
It was a sunny Saturday and every single person in my little Seattle neighborhood seemed to also have been struck by the idea to go to Fred Meyer at 11:30am – long enough after breakfast that you’re not so full you end up only buying tortilla chips and a new nail polish, but close enough to lunch that your brain and stomach are able to keep the conversation about future meals somewhat civilized.
My list included ground turkey, dark chocolate, and a package of latex gloves I could wear while bleaching my roots later that evening. (For the record, the ground turkey and dark chocolate were for eating separately.) Trying to keep a safe distance from people, I waited for a couple to finish their debate over 7% lean or 15% lean ground beef before approaching the refrigerated meats. I let an older person with purple streaks in their gray hair grab their choice of Justin’s peanut butter cups, while I contemplated my choice of Lily’s bar from a few feet away.
Partly because I felt out of breath and partly because I stuck to the least crowded aisles, what would normally be a 15-minute trip was taking closer to half an hour.
Phones famously do not work well in our grocery store. There have been many times I don’t get a text from my partner asking me to pick up very specific pickles we need for dinner until I’m halfway through the parking lot. And even more times, I’ve sent a photo of, say, extra-soft or extra-strong toilet paper asking for a second opinion, only to be met with that little red exclamation point that tells me, “You’re on your own with this one.”
So I was surprised when my phone buzzed in the coffee aisle.
Thinking I’d finally found a secret hotspot, I checked it right away. It was an Amber Alert — be on the lookout for a 2020 light gray Hyundai four-door with damage to the front bumper.
Almost as if on cue, the scary “eerrrr” of the Amber Alert started blaring from every pocket in the store. That sound is always uncomfortable, but the volume turned the alert into an alarm, like the Hyundai was actually in the vicinity and might be snatching up children in aisle nine.
There was a collective hush as we read through the text. Oh, this alert was about an incident in Tacoma. Tacoma is 45 minutes from Seattle with no traffic. The odds of the kidnapper being inside this Fred Meyer went from slim to none.
We all put our phones back in our pockets and continued our Saturdays.
Walking home, still on edge, I realized that this is how life feels lately. Even though there’s no audible alarm, the alerts come in daily. Danger. Be on the lookout. Children are being taken. Maybe not in your neighborhood, but a neighborhood with a name you recognize. A neighborhood you love, even.
It’s hard to ignore — and hard to forgive myself when I find the ignoring possible. There’s an urge to light things on fire, but also a nagging wish to turn back the clocks to 2015.
But only one of those options is possible. And it doesn’t seem like it could actually make a difference, just more of a mess.
So I put the gasoline down and put my groceries away.
P.S. My heart is so proud of everyone who protested this weekend. It’s weird having covid right now because all of the resources are saying different things about when it’s okay to be around people. I suspect it’s because we want to think of covid as more of a common cold, but … it’s not. I’m young and healthy and currently winded walking uphill after almost ten days.
I guess what I’m trying to say is: take care of each other any way you can.