Front Line

John Gavin IV

At 6 a.m., I can read the banner from our dimly lit parking lot: “We Thank You, Front-Line Workers!” It wraps around the overhang on the front door. We’re only allowed in through the back door.

I’m crammed in a cold and dark room with several others awaiting the beep of our temperature checks. Someone asks us to please social-distance as two more employees enter.

At 7, the line of customers outside is 10 times the length of the banner. They’re audible through the locked glass doors. “Are you open yet?” “Let us in, we see you!” “When will this end?” I wipe down shopping carriages and pretend I cannot see them, but they surround me just outside the glass.

At 8, the doors slide open, and the masses flood in. Only half of them are wearing masks. They shout, “Where’s the paper towels?” “Is there a limit on the sanitizer?” “You should be in jail for letting this many people in here!” “I’m buying for my mother, so I’m getting two!” They claw at our shelves and ravage our bins for bread, milk, vegetables, chicken wings, sweaters, tires, multi-colored pens.

From 9 to 11, the clamor is inescapable. “Hire more cashiers!” “You expect me to wait in this?” “This is supposed to be America, not China!” A man stands to the left of one checkout line, bewildered by how many people are there. Four others line up behind him. I inform them he’s not in line, and I’m told to “piss off.”

From noon to 1, there is silence and emptiness. Eerie silence. The store is vacant. I briefly miss the yelling.

At 2 p.m., I leave just before the next wave. They will have to scavenge for scraps left by the early risers. My paycheck is short, because no one added the extra shift I was begged to cover last week when an employee got sick. I look up and discover the banner is missing. It was taken by the wind. I never see it again.

John Gavin of Plainville is a senior at CCSU.