BY CONOR JAMES
She drove a green, American junker – paint chipped, no gas cap, bald tires, and what looked like aluminum foil wrapped around half of her front bumper – but the windows were tinted, and spotless. I’ve heard it said that geniuses pick green, but it was not to be. As I stood at the entrance of my employer’s establishment, minding the door for customers versus vagrants, she pulled up, sideways, and lowered her window to reveal a face primed for confrontation.
“Do you require masks?” she asked.
The forced cheeriness in her voice could not mask the ire in her expression – she already knew what my answer would be.
“Yes, we do,” I said, the forced cheeriness in my voice and my literal mask hiding my expression nicely.
“Well, can you shop for me then?”
“No, I’m sorry, we don’t do that.”
I found out later that we did do that, and I often wonder how different the rest of our interaction would have gone if I had told her so – certainly longer, and, therefore, worse, but possibly with less shouting.
“What you’re doing to us is illegal!” she said. “You have no right to take away our freedom!”
She was very much alone, no one else in the car or in sight. I can only assume us, and, our, referred to like-minded people she wished were there, but could not be, because this was a pandemic, where there are no allies, only echoes of a longed for yesterday.
“We are just following the governor’s orders,” I said. This was a mistake, I should have known better. Just following orders is a poor excuse for the threat of tyranny.
“Not my governor!” She slapped the side of her vehicle three times as she said this, once for each word.
“We’re not gonna take it anymore!” Maybe my eyes or the light were playing tricks, but I tell ya, as she said this, her face twisted, sister.
“You realize that these rules are set at our corporate office, and I just work here.” I motioned to my vacant surroundings.
“Then your company is liable, and so are you! And they can be sued and you can be sued for enforcing it!”
This is where my side of the interaction came to an end, for she had said the magic words, and I had been instructed to remove myself from the situation if anyone ever threatened legal retaliation.
“Good luck with that,” I said, sincerely. “Have a nice day!”
“Yeah, nice day! Nice day!” She only slapped her car door once this time – perhaps her hand was sore from fighting for justice.
“Thanks for nothing, asshole!” She backed up aggressively, and, being parked sideways, unnecessarily.
“You’re all going to get what’s coming to you!” We all got raises shortly after this, so…
She started to pull away and turned her head to shout one last doozy.
“I hope you get the vaccine! Mark of the beast!” Then she sped off.
After nine more months of similar, but far less volatile interactions, I finally received the first of two Covid-19 vaccines. The doctor was quick, kind, and it did not hurt. In that moment I remembered our heroine and looked at my arm for signs of demonic branding, but the doctor had already covered it up with a bandage, which he held in place using only his middle finger. Mark of the beast indeed.
