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A Run to Town

I wanted to break quarantine and make a run up to town for my mail and the Saturday New York Times even though it was an unnecessary trip. I got my street clothes out of the dryer where I had run them through after leaving them on the porch for a few days after the last trip to town. I got my street shoes from off the porch and gathered up my supplies: latex gloves, mask, Northcoast Journal, a sheet and a plastic bag.

I put the sheet on the car seat, put on my gloves, and drove down the hill to town. When I got to the post office I put the mask on and pushed the door open with a page of the weekly, then crumpled it up and put it in my rain jacket pocket. I opened my mailbox and took out the mail with my gloved hand. Oops, I hadn't planned for this. I jammed the mail between the inner folds of the Journal, took off my glove inside out, and jammed it in my garbage pocket.

I pushed open the P. O. door with another page of the paper, crumpled it, and deposited it in my junk pocket. I went back to the car to get another latex glove and walked over to the Shell station where I pushed open the door with another page and repeated the process.

They were holding a New York Times for me and I put the money on the counter and held out my plastic bag. He put it on the counter and I groaned. “I can get you another one,” he said and he put that one in the bag. I pushed open the door with another piece of newspaper, spotted a garbage can, and popped all the crumpled up newspaper balls and the glove that was in my pocket inside it. Then I took off my gloves and tossed them in also.

I took off my rain coat, turned it inside out, and put it in the hatchback of the car. I took off my mask and put my bag of New York Times on the car seat, and the rest of the Northcoast Journal containing my mail on the passenger side floor. I will have to remember my truck registration is inside.

As it was my big outing I drove around town for a few minutes. There were homeless huddled in doorways, the town square garbage was overflowing, and a murder of crows were scavenging for goodies. Brenda was out there talking to someone in his car outside Chautauqua, no six feet for that fearless one.

When I got home I took the sheet from my front seat and went on to the porch where I stripped off my clothes and shoes and left the New York Times and the mail. I'll go get it tomorrow. I breathed a sigh of relief and went into the house. But what about my hair? I took a shower. 


  1. Jonah Raskin April 8, 2020

    What town are you writing about? Where do you livre?

  2. paul modic April 8, 2020


  3. Anonymous April 11, 2020

    Plus there are maskless, gloveless youths out there. With no respect for others.

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