Drinks (Myers)

I work in a liquor store and bar, the walls are lined with shelves, bottles lying down and standing up. Behind the counter, next to me, there is a bag of masks made from white cloth. “Worker’s comp masks,” one of the bartenders tells me when she sees me wearing one.

I got mine from a local coffee shop that’s giving them away for free. The baristas themselves are not wearing masks. The owner of the coffee shop says it is too hot, with the roasters, with the espresso machines.

“Health department’s gonna eat their ass,” the bartender says, when I tell her about the coffee shop. At work, the bartenders and cashiers have been forced to wear masks since about April, or maybe May. The months all blur together. I have been wearing mine since March. I didn’t have a cloth one then, just one meant for cold weather. It’s supposed to keep your face warm when the wind blows cold.

“It’s too late for the masks,” the customer says. “I wish people would understand that.” He has one under his chin, a banner of navy blue cloth; as I watch he tugs it over his chin, his lips, and then over the tip of his nose, which glistens with sweat.

He doesn’t want to wear one, but he will, because I asked him to. I am in charge of people wearing masks, because I’m the first person people see when they walk through the door. It is a giddying power. For a week now, masks have been mandated. Up until then, I had to say that no, we have no specific policy regarding masks. People could do whatever they wanted.

“I haven’t been back here since before everything started, it’s miserable now,” he says. “They took all the fun out of the world this year.” He is looking for Japanese beer and is dissatisfied with our selection. It has been hard to get foreign beers because of the pandemic. Closed borders, issues of international trade, have resulted in this man not finding the specific Japanese beer he wants. He asks if we carry a certain German mini keg instead. We do not.

We are out of the cardboard six pack holders and he doesn’t want to buy one of the fabric ones. I don’t think we should be selling the fabric ones right now. Grocery stores have stopped selling reusable bags. But many things are not up to me.

He has to sign our copy of his receipt before he leaves. He looks, suspiciously, at the pens allocated for this specific purpose. “I wipe them down regularly,” I say. It is true.

“Sign it for me,” he says. I sputter, not sure how to respond. It’s not my card. It’s not my purchase. Isn’t that forgery? I don’t feel comfortable. Should I grab a manager?

“Sign it Donald J. Trump,” he says, and he walks out the door.

Kelsey Myers is a queer writer living in Youngstown, Ohio. She obtained a Bachleor of Arts from Ashland University, where she studied Creative Writing with an emphasis on Creative Nonfiction, and as of fall 2020 will be attending Columbia University's MFA, where she will be studying Creative Nonfiction. Her work has appeared in Go! Magazine.