Retail gothic: 2020 version
- You talk to a customer. They are wearing a mask. You turn to the register, and when you look back, their mask is gone. You grab their order. They have a mask again, but yours is missing.
- You walk into work. A thermometer gun is aimed at your head. You close your eyes and pray that the temperature reads below 100 degrees Fahrenheit. You wait 5 seconds. 20. 60. An hour. An eternity. Finally, your coworker reads out "98.3".
- You wash your hands. A customer hands you money. You wash your hands. You pick up a dirty rag off the ground. You wash your hands. Someone you don't know grabs your forearms, desperately staring into your eyes, searching for something you both know they'll never find. They cry, sinking to the ground and leave without paying. You wash your hands.
- "We care about you" the store owner says. "We want you safe and healthy." You nod, reaching for the faucet. "Faster!" They shout. "We have to get through this line!" You nod, reaching for some gloves. "Glove changes take too long. Figure out something faster." You forgo hand cleansing. You can feel a creeping mold growing, from finger tips, to wrist, to elbow, to chest. In minutes, you are covered. Your manager smiles. "I'm glad you are taking steps to keep safe and healthy."
-You smile at a customer. The fabric covers your face, so you crinkle your eyes. Your manager looks on, an inscrutable look on their face. You widen your smile, hoping that the exaggeration portrays even from behind the mask. Your manager takes a step forward. Your heart seizes up. You stretch your face until your cheeks split from the strain. No one can see the blood running down your face. They only see your squinted eyes, though whether it's a grin or a grimace, no one knows.
- Lines are drawn on the ground to delegate how far away each person should be from each other. The first week, the boxes were drawn in chalk. The second, it was electric tape. On the third week, the lines were sticky and red. You resolve not to look at the floor anymore. You don't want to know how management decided to mark personal space anymore.
- Someone walks up to the front of the store. Your coworker asks you to go explain that the dining room isn't open right now. You tense up. Your hands shake as you walk towards the door. You are almost crying by the time you finally reach the front. When you tell the stranger that you are only doing drive thru, they stare at you, until finally, finally, they nod. You lock the door behind you before collapsing on the ground in tears. You don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been able to get the words right.
- The work telephone rings. "Are you still open?" You tell the asker, yes, until ten tonight. On break, an unknown number calls your cellphone. Something tells you that if you don't answer, it won't stop ringing. A voice that sounds almost human asks if you are still open, and you respond with an inaudible nod. They hang up. You go home. The landline that isn't even hooked up anymore rings. Your hand shakes as you reach forward, picking up the receiver. No one speaks, but you know the question. They know the answer. The line goes dead.
- Your coworker puts in their two week notice. "I just don't feel safe, still working." On their last day, they go into the back to hand in their keys and nametag. They come back out, obviously shaken, and continue working. Neither of you speaks of the foolish attempt to leave ever again.
