<"Spider Above Garage Door":
Take I/The Reckoner>
Take I/The Reckoner>
Reckoner's Note: Here we go again, with various random observations, tidbits and just plain surreal moments that we're encountering in our travels....
<Thursday: 8.13>
We were running short on resources for the weekend, so The Squawker and I drove out to the bank. Like that classic '60s Sonny Curtis number says, "I needed money, 'cause I had none." Well, we had a little bit, but didn't have to fight the law to get it.
It's been a long time since we experienced the lengthy waits we encountered when the COVID-19 bomb first dropped (see Take II of this series, "No Go (At The Drive-Thru A Go-Go"). These days, it's downright pleasant. You're in and out, more or less, in five minutes.
Like every major player of our economy -- dollar stores, gas stations, groceries, and so on -- the banks have buckled down, and adjusted. The lobby is still open by appointment-only, but otherwise, you're in and out so fast, you almost forget there's a pandemic. Well, almost.
I pull into the center drive-through lane. Next to me.a bald black woman bends studiously over the pneumatic tube/intercom, on...a walker. Wow, that's a first, I tell myself. A walker.
The pneumatic tube hisses open. The woman grabs her red and white envelope, stuffs it into her purse. She pushes out of the drive-through lane, and disappears across the street in just a couple of minutes.
"Hey," I ask the teller. "I didn't know you allowed anybody to walk through the drive through..."
"Sure. Why not?"
"As long as it's mobile, I guess?"
The young man nods. "Something like that." He shoots us our money and our envelope back, and we're on our way. Seventy-five bucks, which should see us smoothly through till Monday. With fewer places to go, less to support means less to spend.
Of course, our local high school coaches wax disappointment, but honestly, what did they expect? A similar ax also just fell on Big Ten football, which also postponed play until next year, amid doubts about whether any of the institutions actually voted to do that. But it's a semantic distinction, I'd say, given the cloud of dread that hangs over our nation. As Minnesota's president, Joan Gael, so eloquently put it: "Safety first,. Absolutely, safety first."
I stick our hometown paper back in its rack and go on about my business. I haven't written for it since mid-March, when management sidelined all correspondents after COVID-19 hit.
The week we went on ice, I found myself groaning at covering our annual countywide beauty pageant, a massive two-night affair -- one for the girls, one for the guys -- held at our community college. Then it got canceled. Great! I thought. So much for that headache. But I was scrambling to finish a preview story for an upcoming symphonic concert.
Halfway through my task, the conductor emailed. The concert was canceled, and the season was scrapped, too. Then my editor emailed: no need for the story, obviously. When (or if) I'll write there anymore, who knows? But at least I'm not out giving "elevator pitches," or whatever they're telling jobless to do these days. So it could be worse, I guess.
On my way out, I pull across the street, and zip through the blood bank parking lot (NO THROUGH TRAFFIC, my ass), next to the small bar that's been hosting live music outside lately. I call it the Corona Corral, because the majority of the crowd, small as it is, doesn't bother to wear masks, social distance, or any of that stuff.
The sight has convinced me that "Entertainment Or Death!" is no longer only a slogan. (For further reference, see Take XII in this series, "Live & Unmasked, At The Corona Corral.") Tonight's crowd seems smaller at first, barely hitting a couple dozen, but half an hour or so later, I see that it's picked up to 30-40 people.
On Monday, I learn that our city commission has yanked their permit, citing an array of noise complaints as the reason. I'm not surprised, because the bar is situated in a mostly residential area, for which any outdoor amplification seems totally inappropriate.
But even without the noise issue, The Squawker and I feel less inclined to get any food there. After seeing so many people flout the most basic rules, we don't feel the same way about them anymore.
"Sixteen. I feel like people are getting burned out on all this stuff. A lot of people seem pretty depressed. That's what I'm picking up on."
"Hmm, I skipped out, myself," I admit. "So I can't say I'm a role model there. But don't forget, summers are always a bit slower. We had fewer people, even when we could actually go to a church."
"Well, we're not reopening before May," Squawker responds. "I wish we could do it in October. Soon, it's going to be a year of my life I've lost to all this bullshit."
"I feel bad for you, and everybody else." Now it's my turn to sigh. "But right now, there's no end in sight, short of heading for the hills, as it's often put."
"I may do that. We may do that."
For tonight's dinner, Squawker and I opt for Mexican food. Neither of us feels like cooking, nor dealing with the associated rituals (as in, prep work, or loading the dishwasher). In these situations, the path of least resistance usually wins. I stop at the store for a couple two-liter bottles.
On my way to check out, I spot a couple sporting the unmistakable trademarks of the far right fringe. They're both sporting red baseball caps that demand: IMPEACH WHITMER. The male half of the dynamic duo also wears a red T-shirt with a rattlesnake. Underneath said snake is the colonial-era slogan, DON'T TREAD ON ME. Just in case you missed the memo, right?
I watch them haggle with the cashier. Apparently, they thought they were getting 50% off on four jars of something or other, but the cashier says otherwise, after checking the weekly ad. Looks like this transaction will take forever.
I head for the six new self-service checkouts that Matthew's installed recently. I have mixed feelings about this development. I appreciate the convenience, but I enjoy talking with the cashiers, and so do they, I'm sure, if only to move the minute hand.
But I'd sure as hell miss a future where I couldn't banter with anybody. Then again, I'm glad Mr. and Mrs. Don't Tread On Me didn't approach me, or try to hand me a flyer for their cause, or whatever fringe group they represent.
Put another way, I don't want my tacos and fries, nor Squawker's burrito, guacamole, chips and soup to get cold. Once again, the path of least resistance wins. But this time, I don't mind. --The Reckoner
It's been a long time since we experienced the lengthy waits we encountered when the COVID-19 bomb first dropped (see Take II of this series, "No Go (At The Drive-Thru A Go-Go"). These days, it's downright pleasant. You're in and out, more or less, in five minutes.
Like every major player of our economy -- dollar stores, gas stations, groceries, and so on -- the banks have buckled down, and adjusted. The lobby is still open by appointment-only, but otherwise, you're in and out so fast, you almost forget there's a pandemic. Well, almost.
I pull into the center drive-through lane. Next to me.a bald black woman bends studiously over the pneumatic tube/intercom, on...a walker. Wow, that's a first, I tell myself. A walker.
The pneumatic tube hisses open. The woman grabs her red and white envelope, stuffs it into her purse. She pushes out of the drive-through lane, and disappears across the street in just a couple of minutes.
"Hey," I ask the teller. "I didn't know you allowed anybody to walk through the drive through..."
"Sure. Why not?"
"As long as it's mobile, I guess?"
The young man nods. "Something like that." He shoots us our money and our envelope back, and we're on our way. Seventy-five bucks, which should see us smoothly through till Monday. With fewer places to go, less to support means less to spend.
<Friday: 8.14>
Today's big headline in our local paper focuses on the Michigan High School Athletic Association's decision to push football season from fall to spring. Whether kids will be able to practice is left hanging; to be announced, presumably, once greater minds weigh in.Of course, our local high school coaches wax disappointment, but honestly, what did they expect? A similar ax also just fell on Big Ten football, which also postponed play until next year, amid doubts about whether any of the institutions actually voted to do that. But it's a semantic distinction, I'd say, given the cloud of dread that hangs over our nation. As Minnesota's president, Joan Gael, so eloquently put it: "Safety first,. Absolutely, safety first."
I stick our hometown paper back in its rack and go on about my business. I haven't written for it since mid-March, when management sidelined all correspondents after COVID-19 hit.
The week we went on ice, I found myself groaning at covering our annual countywide beauty pageant, a massive two-night affair -- one for the girls, one for the guys -- held at our community college. Then it got canceled. Great! I thought. So much for that headache. But I was scrambling to finish a preview story for an upcoming symphonic concert.
Halfway through my task, the conductor emailed. The concert was canceled, and the season was scrapped, too. Then my editor emailed: no need for the story, obviously. When (or if) I'll write there anymore, who knows? But at least I'm not out giving "elevator pitches," or whatever they're telling jobless to do these days. So it could be worse, I guess.
<Saturday: 8.15>
Tonight, I find myself running a quick errand for some grocery items, like lunch meat and bread, plus two-liter pops, toilet paper, and a six-pack of paper towels, as we're getting our toilet replaced on Monday. Management has sternly advised us, via email, to make sure that everything is thoroughly cleansed and disinfected for them.
On my way out, I pull across the street, and zip through the blood bank parking lot (NO THROUGH TRAFFIC, my ass), next to the small bar that's been hosting live music outside lately. I call it the Corona Corral, because the majority of the crowd, small as it is, doesn't bother to wear masks, social distance, or any of that stuff.
The sight has convinced me that "Entertainment Or Death!" is no longer only a slogan. (For further reference, see Take XII in this series, "Live & Unmasked, At The Corona Corral.") Tonight's crowd seems smaller at first, barely hitting a couple dozen, but half an hour or so later, I see that it's picked up to 30-40 people.
On Monday, I learn that our city commission has yanked their permit, citing an array of noise complaints as the reason. I'm not surprised, because the bar is situated in a mostly residential area, for which any outdoor amplification seems totally inappropriate.
But even without the noise issue, The Squawker and I feel less inclined to get any food there. After seeing so many people flout the most basic rules, we don't feel the same way about them anymore.
<Sunday: 8.16>
Our weekly church services are continuing on Zoom, though this week's turnout is notably flatter than usual. "How many checked out this week's session?" I ask The Squawker."Sixteen. I feel like people are getting burned out on all this stuff. A lot of people seem pretty depressed. That's what I'm picking up on."
"Hmm, I skipped out, myself," I admit. "So I can't say I'm a role model there. But don't forget, summers are always a bit slower. We had fewer people, even when we could actually go to a church."
"Well, we're not reopening before May," Squawker responds. "I wish we could do it in October. Soon, it's going to be a year of my life I've lost to all this bullshit."
"I feel bad for you, and everybody else." Now it's my turn to sigh. "But right now, there's no end in sight, short of heading for the hills, as it's often put."
"I may do that. We may do that."
<Monday: 8.17>
On my way to check out, I spot a couple sporting the unmistakable trademarks of the far right fringe. They're both sporting red baseball caps that demand: IMPEACH WHITMER. The male half of the dynamic duo also wears a red T-shirt with a rattlesnake. Underneath said snake is the colonial-era slogan, DON'T TREAD ON ME. Just in case you missed the memo, right?
I watch them haggle with the cashier. Apparently, they thought they were getting 50% off on four jars of something or other, but the cashier says otherwise, after checking the weekly ad. Looks like this transaction will take forever.
I head for the six new self-service checkouts that Matthew's installed recently. I have mixed feelings about this development. I appreciate the convenience, but I enjoy talking with the cashiers, and so do they, I'm sure, if only to move the minute hand.
But I'd sure as hell miss a future where I couldn't banter with anybody. Then again, I'm glad Mr. and Mrs. Don't Tread On Me didn't approach me, or try to hand me a flyer for their cause, or whatever fringe group they represent.
Put another way, I don't want my tacos and fries, nor Squawker's burrito, guacamole, chips and soup to get cold. Once again, the path of least resistance wins. But this time, I don't mind. --The Reckoner
<"Spider Above Garage Door":
Take II/The Reckoner>
Take II/The Reckoner>
No comments:
Post a Comment