One pleasant CoronaWorld discovery for The Girlfriend and me: a new (to us) local wine store. It has an impressive selection of wines under $20; it delivers for free in our neighborhood. Both times we’ve thought to order, we’ve been too late to get wine for that evening. The first time, we walked to the store next day to pick up; this time we thought we’d try delivery.
Next day, Sunday, I’m hurrying to meet to my self-imposed daily plague journal deadline, thus distracted when my phone rings: unknown number, somewhere in Pennsylvania. I let it go to voicemail. Seconds later, the same number texts:
“Hi there I’m here with your wine delivery.”
“Hi! Hit [xxx] on lobby keypad. That rings my phone. I’ll buzz you in.”
I put down my phone, lose myself in the next sentence.
My phone is nearing its exasperatingly swift point of obsolescence. The battery sporadically loses charge, plummeting from, say, 42 percent to dead in a three-minute call. I have no idea if its recent intermittent failure to ring — including for calls I’m expecting enough to have cranked up my ringer volume — is part of the obsolescence plan; suffice to say, it’s annoying.
Anyway, three minutes later, when I realize my phone hasn’t rung, I pull up from my paragraph, call the Pennsylvania number. That phone is apparently calling me; it goes to voicemail. I run to the closet, look for flip-flops: I’ll take the elevator down, grab the bottles myself. The doorbell rings. I hustle to answer.
It’s a white man: 30-something, bike helmet atop brown curly hair, glasses, green plaid shirt, orange vest, beard poking from below mask.
“Someone let me in downstairs.” He extends two bags, four wine bottles.
I grab the bags, apologize, explain about my phone.
“No problem.” He’s backing away.
I thank him, close the door, realize: Tip!
If the vendor had a space to tip the deliverer digitally, I'd missed it. I run to the bedroom for my wallet. Normally I’d have my wallet in my pocket, but like millions I’m spending CoronaWorld almost entirely sweatpantsed. I grab a ten, hustle to the door, open to hear the ding of the closing elevator doors. Damn.
I post my blog, prepare for a walk. As I don my mask I realize: I can walk to the wine store, deposit my tip there. I’m already taking clothes to my laundromat across the street; now I have two errands. It feels good to have tasks. I set out.
My laundromat is at its sparse CoronaWorld normal: only two women at the machines, my Filipino friend cleaning, boss at the register. Unlike for his Before CoronaWorld staff, I have to spell out my name for the boss to punch into the register. I leave my bag (21 pounds — heavier than usual, with The Kid and The Girlfriend here all week), wave to my friend, head south to the wine store.
On Fulton Avenue, the store has placed a long table diagonally across its door to bar entry; a staff member stands behind it, ready to hand patrons bottles ordered for pick-up. I wait six feet behind a customer; their conversation takes a while. I grab my phone, check email. When he leaves, I walk to the table.
The staffer is a white woman: 20-something, long straight brunette hair, round glasses, grey sweater, long grey skirt: “Are you picking up?”
I explain about my forgotten tip as I reach into my pocket, grab my wallet, extract my $10 bill, extend it toward her. Inside the store, a sandy-haired man behind the counter watches us.
She recoils, as if I offer a toad.
“Oh! We’re not accepting cash.”
“Oh. Right. I get it. Can you think of any way I can get this to him?” My $10 is still extended.
“I don’t think so. We have a tip button on our website; next time you should use that.”
“Okay. Sorry.” I’m not sure why I’m apologizing.
As I walk east on Fulton I remember: gloves. On my CoronaWorld walks I’m always masked, rarely gloved. I carry gloves in my coat pockets, put them on if I’m going into a business (the laundromat, say), remove them upon exiting. The Girlfriend always keeps on her disposables. I don’t have a rationale beyond my own comfort. Am I endangering myself, others? Now I realize: I was barehanded when I offered that woman my $10. She must have seen me as doubly contaminated.
The Girlfriend calls: she’s heading home after an early dinner with her children. I decide to cut short my walk, be there when she arrives. I’m hungry, happy to cook my dinner sooner.
I’m putting my phone in my pocket when I hear behind me: “Sir! Sir!”
I turn. A white man pulls beside, stops his bike: 30-something, bike helmet atop sandy hair, no glasses, plain white T-shirt, orange vest, clean shaven.
“Hey. I’m your delivery man.” He gestures toward the wine store. “I don’t share the store’s policy. I’m happy to take your tip.” He looks down. “I’ve got kids.”
I recognize him: the man who watched me offer $10 to the woman at the door. “Oh. Umm, you’re not the guy who did my delivery.”
“Oh, we all share tips.” That might even be true. “I got laid off recently, just picked up this job. Most of what I make is tips.” He looks down again. “I’ve got kids.” That might be true, too.
I don’t care. My actual delivery man will never see it, but I’m giving him the $10 — he’s hustled for it, needs it more than I.
“Hey, thanks a lot. I really appreciate it.”
“You bet. Stay safe.”
“You, too.”
I walk home, crack a beer, cut up a sausage, heat black beans, tortillas, make a salad, wait for The Girlfriend to come home. Another day in CoronaWorld.
(New York state numbers on Sunday: 316,415 diagnosed with Covid-19, up 1.1 percent; 280 dead, to a total of 19,189 up 1.5 percent. Overall U.S. deaths: 1,105, to a total of 61,704, up 1.8 percent.)
No comments:
Post a Comment