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Too Much Like Sunday
some days it’s not worth getting out of bed
Note: This was a day in the early days of the plague, when our mayor had just urged all citizens to stay home.
It’s too much like Sunday out there. Very little traffic. Parking lots empty. I had an appointment over at Hamburg this morning, but since I was up until after 6 I overslept and was nearly late. Ping one.
All of the handicap spaces were full, which meant a half a block walk to the front doors o my appointment. Ping two.
Inside, directly in front of the office doors, a young woman sat at a long table, laptop open, with Purell bottles strategically positioned. She was wearing a red Dollar Store tiara. Ping three.
She greeted me and lifted her pen to a pile of blank forms.
“Your name?” she asked. She had an attitude, one of pride at being in charge of such an important task, whatever that task was. Ping four.
“Floyd,” I said and moved toward the office door while she tapped at her keyboard. “Not yet,” she said. “Your first name?”
I began to spell it for her rather than waste time repeating it and having to spell it. “It’s all in your system,” I reminded her. This particular office is as automated as possible; I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t have…
