Are The Bars Still Open?
A man walks into the convenience store maybe an hour or so after we’ve shuttered the kitchen and proceeds to stroll around the store for a few minutes, looking at every bag of chips and bottle of soda one by one. Since business has ground to a halt and my bosses have all but given up on giving us busy work, I have little to do but watch him.
The man is wearing an oversized beanie, a clean white shirt, ill-fitting brown pants, and a pair of plain white running sneakers. Although he seems rather tall, his terrible posture takes a few inches off him. He looks bewildered as he wanders around, and nearly jumps out of his shoes after bumping into a hat rack. The entire world is fraying his nerves. His eyes are wide as he clutches a bottle of Pepsi to his chest, as if someone might steal it from him. After a few minutes, he approaches the counter, timidly drops the soda, a bag of chips, and some beef jerky in front of me. He asks for a pack of Camel wides.
“Hey man, can I get a sandwich, too?” the man quietly asks as the register beeps. He avoids eye contact, his gaze fixed on a spot on–or through–my chest.
“Sorry man,” I reply. “Kitchen's shutting down until further notice.”
“Oh, why’s that? Y’all had a bad inspection or something?”
I chuckle politely, humoring his lame joke.
“No, it’s the virus, y’know? Governor says they’re shutting everything down.”
The man looks up to make eye contact with me for the first time. He looks puzzled, as if I just told him that we no longer accept US currency or that Bigfoot has a ten point lead in the race for mayor. I stare back, head cocked like a dog, trying to discern if this guy is trying to fuck with me; I can’t imagine a single person in the world had missed the news about a pandemic.
He turns my words over in his mind, tries to make sense of them. When reality dawns on him, the fear in his eyes is clear.
“So, I’m gonna be honest with ya, man,” he says. “I just got out of the facility today–was there six years–and I don’t really know what you mean. I mean, I heard something about a virus, but…”
He trails off, turns to look out the window at the freeway. I follow his gaze. It’s just after 5pm, but traffic is light.
The man snaps his head back, “They ain’t say nothing to me about it when they let me go. I didn’t know it was this bad.” He drops his head, frowns. My heart sinks. He is learning, in real time, that freedom is bittersweet.
The man fishes a few dollar bills from his pocket and drops them on the counter. He tosses another one into the tip jar.
“Alright, I’mma go sit and have a beer, I guess” he says. “Are the bars still open?”
I tell him I’m not sure, but the governor’s order doesn’t go into force until the next day, so his odds are pretty good. He offers a weak smile, gathers his things, and turns to walk away. I wish him well to his back. He pauses, looks out at the car waiting for him in the parking lot, then turns back to me.
“I kinda wish I was still in lockup right now,” the man says.
He shrugs and pushes his shoulder against the glass door. I watch him climb into the passenger side of an old white Honda, which soon disappears into the light rush hour traffic. Once the car is out of sight, I ask my manager if I can take a smoke break.
He replies that I can just go home.
The man is wearing an oversized beanie, a clean white shirt, ill-fitting brown pants, and a pair of plain white running sneakers. Although he seems rather tall, his terrible posture takes a few inches off him. He looks bewildered as he wanders around, and nearly jumps out of his shoes after bumping into a hat rack. The entire world is fraying his nerves. His eyes are wide as he clutches a bottle of Pepsi to his chest, as if someone might steal it from him. After a few minutes, he approaches the counter, timidly drops the soda, a bag of chips, and some beef jerky in front of me. He asks for a pack of Camel wides.
“Hey man, can I get a sandwich, too?” the man quietly asks as the register beeps. He avoids eye contact, his gaze fixed on a spot on–or through–my chest.
“Sorry man,” I reply. “Kitchen's shutting down until further notice.”
“Oh, why’s that? Y’all had a bad inspection or something?”
I chuckle politely, humoring his lame joke.
“No, it’s the virus, y’know? Governor says they’re shutting everything down.”
The man looks up to make eye contact with me for the first time. He looks puzzled, as if I just told him that we no longer accept US currency or that Bigfoot has a ten point lead in the race for mayor. I stare back, head cocked like a dog, trying to discern if this guy is trying to fuck with me; I can’t imagine a single person in the world had missed the news about a pandemic.
He turns my words over in his mind, tries to make sense of them. When reality dawns on him, the fear in his eyes is clear.
“So, I’m gonna be honest with ya, man,” he says. “I just got out of the facility today–was there six years–and I don’t really know what you mean. I mean, I heard something about a virus, but…”
He trails off, turns to look out the window at the freeway. I follow his gaze. It’s just after 5pm, but traffic is light.
The man snaps his head back, “They ain’t say nothing to me about it when they let me go. I didn’t know it was this bad.” He drops his head, frowns. My heart sinks. He is learning, in real time, that freedom is bittersweet.
The man fishes a few dollar bills from his pocket and drops them on the counter. He tosses another one into the tip jar.
“Alright, I’mma go sit and have a beer, I guess” he says. “Are the bars still open?”
I tell him I’m not sure, but the governor’s order doesn’t go into force until the next day, so his odds are pretty good. He offers a weak smile, gathers his things, and turns to walk away. I wish him well to his back. He pauses, looks out at the car waiting for him in the parking lot, then turns back to me.
“I kinda wish I was still in lockup right now,” the man says.
He shrugs and pushes his shoulder against the glass door. I watch him climb into the passenger side of an old white Honda, which soon disappears into the light rush hour traffic. Once the car is out of sight, I ask my manager if I can take a smoke break.
He replies that I can just go home.
M.G. Belka is a writer and journalist based in Eugene, Oregon. Born to Polish immigrants in the South Carolina Lowcountry, Belka cut his teeth on punk rock and underground culture in reaction to the inescapable boredom and conservatism of the Deep South. His writing explores themes of anxiety, politics, substance abuse and underground culture. He can be found on Twitter @mgbelka.