Friend Titmarsh, self-isolating, buys his own groceries. He described his system to the Authorial Rabbit:
“I wear a mask in the grocery store. I go early, during the time for my age group.” M. A. Titmarsh is not young. Some would say he is timeless. “When Trump said he wouldn’t wear a mask, I put mine on. I grab the sani-wipes at the door and wipe down the store’s basket. I do the dance, veering when other people come near. I make definite choices, no fondling of the merchandise. I stand back from the cashier. We exchange muffled greetings. I notice men aren’t wearing masks, unless they’re health-care workers. Women do. Women in the grocery store are. Why is that?”
“Men don’t want to show they’re sissies, that they worry about silly things like viruses. Stiff upper lungs.”
“Right. Anyway, when I get home, I take everything out of the bags outside and set things on the outside deck. I wash my hands for 20 seconds in soap and water. I prepare a place on the kitchen counter. I place a cloth soaked in bleach, soap and water there. I fill the sink with soap and water. I bring in each item, set it on the cloth, then wash it in the soap and water. If the item isn’t washable that way, I rub in down with the cloth. The discarded bags never come in. I put them in the garbage can. I wash my hands again. Job done.”
“I salute you,” said I.
“Trouble finding nuts and berries. Organics.”
“Oh dear.”
“The bins are closed.”
“Well.”
“You saw that woman?”
“What woman?”
“On TV. She was driving away from her church service, where members of the congregation had met in person, thick on the ground, singing and shouting inside, defying the WHO and federal advice on not gathering in groups. The TV reporter asked her whether she wasn’t concerned about catching and spreading the virus.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she was covered in the blood of Jesus.”
‘Hmmm.”
“Covered in blood.”
“Yes. Striking image. I wonder what she meant? One gets the drift, but what exactly? Did she mean the invisible blood would protect her from all harm? Or that if she did get sick and get others sick, it was ok because God was overseeing things?”
Titmarsh displays his learning. “The Bible speaks about Jesus’ blood a lot. The idea that he shed his blood to save others. His blood. The blood of the Lamb. Communion in many churches means drinking wine as if it were Jesus’ blood. But the notion that people get covered in blood, I think that’s a new extension of the idea. As if believers were at the cross and it rained down on them. Or maybe the Crown of Thorns, the blood sprayed them.”
“Do you think she didn’t believe the virus was contagious? The science and media were wrong — fake news?”
“I don’t know. When asked about her increasing the chances of her being infected and then infecting others, like cashiers in the grocery store, she got angry and said, ‘Well, what about them, what if they infect me?'”
“Interesting. She seems to accept that the virus exists and could infect people. She’d blame the cashiers for infecting her, but not take blame herself for infecting them?”
“Maybe.”
“And there was that poor old fellow who played the blues guitar and preached. He posted that the virus was being overused as a political tool to damage Trump, and went to New Orleans during Mardi Gras to sing and preach in the street, got the virus, presumably spread it all over the place in New Orleans, tried to drive home to Virginia and died from the virus on the way home.”
“Didn’t know about that one.”
I could hear Titmarsh’s kettle boiling. “You’re boiling your mask?”
“No, making tea.”
“Too bad we can’t visit each other, our friends.”
“Yes, these days.”
“That blood.”
“People need consolation. Some way of dealing with fear and anxiety, not to mention no income.”
“Yes, true. And comfort from the tribe. As Keats put it: ‘What am I then? Thou spakest of my tribe?/What tribe?'”
“Keats again. How’s your new book selling?”
“You mean the one I edited for Dr. Randolph Pandolphian?”
“Whatever.”
“‘Ye cannot serve God and Mammon’.”
“That bad.”
“We’ll keep in touch.”
“Right.”
J. B. Thompson 