In the age of the coronavirus, pushing a shopping cart is now an exercise in fear
The epitaph will read, “He had to get fresh parsley.”
Outside the entrance of the store I am about to confront our greatest fear, our greatest enemy. Not the coronavirus itself, but its potential carrier. The shopping cart.
Another cruel paradox: These four-wheeled, seemingly innocent creations are now our lifeline to holding life’s essentials — beer, tortillas, cookies and skim-milk coffee creamer — while doubling as the host that will turn us all into dinosaurs.
Makes you wonder if the Tyrannosaurus Rex and his Velociraptor buddies all bit it not because of a “giant meteorite” but their shopping carts, and stubborn refusal to adequately social distance.
As national, state and local governments close the world, and implement “social distancing guidelines,” the trip to the store remains curiously a safe adventure.
Previously the most mindless of activities, grabbing a shopping cart and pushing it around a store, is now an exercise in overcoming our second greatest fear. (No. 1 is public speaking. No. 2 is death.)
Even before I walk into the store I have clutched the handlebar to the cart, and then proceed inside where I am greeted by an unnervingly optimistic employee who hands me a wipe.
It’s too late. My hands have gripped this handlebar for no less than 30 seconds. Was it wiped down with bleach and disinfectant after the last person was done?
Did that the last person who touched this cart have the coronavirus? Or, worse, bad credit? This is not the time to be infected with bad credit.
Assuming my cart was sprayed, did the disinfectant can have enough of the juice to kill the coronavirus bacteria lurking on this handlebar? Or was the can almost empty? Pppfffsssttt.
I need answers.
According to what I have read on Facebook, the 30 seconds I have had my previously clean hands on this handlebar is more than enough time to kill me and my entire family, and at least one cousin. It says that after washing my hands for two minutes buys me five seconds to hold any object.
Or maybe it’s the object that has to be cleaned for two minutes, and then we’re clear for 15 seconds?
The employee assures me this store “practices social distancing,” which is the new “safe sex.” In the coming months, I expect we will need full body condoms to buy milk and cereal.
As I turn the corner I immediately see no less than 10 “social distancing” violations. There should be a 1-800 hotline to report these people, and collect a $1,000 check from the government.
I read on Instagram the government will issue us all $500,000 checks in the next day or so, but Russia may prevent that from happening. And I read on the Internet that if you hold your breath for 10 seconds you’re immune.
Places that have clusters of more than 10 people are deemed death traps, but buying bananas two feet away from a total stranger is OK.
No matter, I have to get fresh parsley for this recipe or it will be ruined, and life won’t be worth living.
Walking down the fresh produce aisle is a scene from the director’s cut from the next James Bond movie. Danger is everywhere, and I am not talking about the eggplant we buy knowing full well we will never actually eat it.
You need to be a Hollywood stunt professional to adequately practice social distancing in this labyrinth of danger.
That woman, who along with her two kids are a whole lot closer to me than six feet, looks like she has the virus. Either that or she hasn’t slept in 72 hours, which these days feels like three years.
Another woman wears a protective face mask. Where did she get one of those? She probably has a closet full of two-ply toilet paper.
(Why can’t I stop touching my face and scratching my nose these days?)
While I am terrified of my shopping cart, why do the other items in the store get a free pass? Were they all wiped down with bleach cloths?
Why did I pick up both bottles of vegetable oil? I just need one. Now is not the time to compare items, and prices.
Everything in this store could be infected. There is no logical way all of these millions of items in stores all over the United States can be adequately decontaminated.
What about a gas pump? The button on an ATM machine? How many items in a day do we touch without a thought, which circumstances now force us to ask legitimately absurd questions.
Regardless, this is probably my last time in the store anyway.
A friend of mine on a text thread of 10 people said he has a frat brother from A&M whose mother works for the Department of Homeland Security, and he said that she said that we’re all going to quarantined in, like, the next 24 hours.
But as I let go of the shopping cart, my fear does not dissipate but simply transfers to the next terrifying task: Carrying the shopping bags to the car.
This story was originally published March 20, 2020 at 5:00 AM.
