It’s been one of those days.
First the day just dragged on and on and ON. At about 4 pm, DayTech said something about how she felt like she’d been there all day. Her shift started three hours after mine. The foot traffic was pretty nonexistent. Tomorrow, I’m working a late shift, and I expect it will be just as bad. Covid-19 has gotten everyone so screwed up right now. Half our patients don’t care about the order to stay at home. The other half is too terrified to even look out their windows. The same jackass who complained we didn’t have masks in the store last week, complained again this week. This time, he broadened his complaint, lamenting not only our lack of masks, but the dearth of cleaning supplies, gloves, and Purell.
To make up for this perceived slight against him, he believes we should donate 100 masks to his pregnant daughter, who is still unable to leave the house because she has no masks.
LISTEN HERE, YOU HALF-WITTED CANKER-BLOSSOM, WE HAVE NO FUCKING MASKS.
The isolation is getting to me. Not being close to family is getting to me. I’m missing Shawshank. His letters are a mixed blessing. On one hand, they’re almost like chatting about our days during the commutes. He tells me that the med-line was early, or breakfast was late, or barber shop was cancelled. On the other hand, I can tell that he’s not going to make it out of there in one piece. He’s been in there for 37 days now. It’s weird how fast you can get used to meaningless routines, he wrote in the most recent letter. Aside from a job and that, I don’t want a lot of routine. It’s starting to hurt, the routine. I don’t know how long it will take to get over this. And all I can think of when he talks like that is Brooks from Shawshank Redemption:
I have trouble sleepin’ at night. I have bad dreams like I’m falling. I wake up scared. Sometimes it takes me a while to remember where I am.
Stephen King, Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption
While he’s inside, I’m out here. He calls it “the front lines”. My mother and I text a little here and there, mostly while I send her complaints about work and my progress of selling things. My uncle messaged me today. He asked how I was holding up. “These are weird times,” he said.
My sister, who hasn’t contacted me except for a “happy birthday” text over a month ago, texted this weekend. She wanted to know what temperature the oven needed to be to cook brownies.
I haven’t talked to my dad since my nephew’s birthday in January. What’s the protocol for wishing happy birthday to a parent who as forgotten your birthday? Asking for a friend.
