I stood in the beer aisle at the supermarket mulling over the choices. I was getting back together with my college friends for a virtual happy hour later that evening. The recent circumstances had forced us to get creative with distant socializing. I opened the fridge door to grab a six-pack of Miller Lite but paused mid-reach. Maybe I’d better get something from Ohio—support small business. I closed the door and pushed my cart over to the Local Breweries section. I grabbed an IPA from one of my favorite Columbus breweries, Seventh Son, rationalizing the extra cost, and I tossed it into my cart, and I crossed beer off the shopping list.
I turned the cart around and wheeled it back towards the main aisle to check out. I passed a man mulling over his own choice. Nestled just above a crumpled, damp surgical mask, his eyes darted back and forth, scanning the options behind the cold glass. I recognized those eyes from the operating room. They had the same scrutiny and intensity as the surgeon’s studying the opened abdomen of a patient. As I passed, I caught a glimpse of his gloved hand reaching into the fridge to grab his selection. Miller Lite.
I got to the checkout line and began unloading my cart. It was fuller than a typical trip for me. I was picking up groceries for my family, too, since the virus had forced me to come home from Philadelphia to stay with them. I pulled my ID out of my wallet to have ready.
“Seventh Son!” she exclaimed as she swiped the six-pack across the scanner. I put my ID into her gloved hand, and I watched her examine it through what must have been a newly installed, clear, plastic sneeze-shield that separated her from me. “I hope they’re doing okay with everything that’s going on. I’d hate to see them go under.” She handed the ID back to me. I smiled and nodded in agreement. I wondered if I should’ve been wearing gloves, too, as I slipped the ID back into my wallet.
I noticed the masked man with the Miller Lite getting his ID checked a few registers over. High school kids must be loving this. Steal an older brother’s ID, throw on a surgical mask, and fool the cashier into selling beer for a virtual party in their unsuspecting parents’ basement.
“Receipt with you or in the bag?”
“Bag’s fine. Thanks.”
I packed the bags into my cart and headed back out to my parents’ car. The parking lot was full. Masks and gloves swarmed in and out in search of hand sanitizer, toilet paper, and bottled water. They must have known the store was sold out of all of it. Maybe futile searching helped take their minds off the paranoia. I hadn’t bought any survival items to stock up on and considered turning back for them, almost out of obligation, as I drove away.
When I got home, my brother helped me unload the groceries. He asked what I was doing later that night. I told him I was going to a happy hour with friends. My brother crumpled his face. “Please tell me you’re not doing happy hour over FaceTime.”
I laughed as we went back into the house and shut the garage door.
I fished the beer out of the grocery bags, and I grabbed my laptop and headed down to the basement. Maybe it is dumb to be doing this. Maybe virtual happy hour was just a euphemism to justify talking at my computer and drinking beer in my parents’ basement.
Outside of a couple visits for football game weekends, my friends and I hadn’t all been together since we graduated the previous May. A few were still in school, but most had started jobs or graduate school and moved away. We were all excited to see each other again, even virtually, and I had been looking forward to it all day. I opened my laptop, and I cracked open a beer. My friends logged onto our group call and did the same.
“To COVID-19 for bringing us back together,” my friend Austin said.
“Cheers!”
I raised my can to my computer webcam and heard a metal-on-plastic click.
J. Reed McGraw is an MS1 at the Perelman School of Medicine. Reed can be reached by email at [email protected].
