“Jamokes flushing wipes down their toilets at home like they do at work, except now they’re screwing up their own pipes,” he said, showing her a postcard he and Helen made instructing customers what not to flush.
Gyms closed. Schools closed for a few weeks, then reopened virtually. Restaurants and eateries morphed into curbside pickup and carryout operations as emergency rooms and ICU units overflowed. Rudy and Alice lost access to the vending machines at the three gyms, but the two located at the employee break rooms at the Port and railroad depot needed more frequent replenishing for supply chain employees, who were now considered essential.
“Let’s get two more machines for the supermarkets,” Rudy said.
“Maybe after the virus goes away,” she said, sidestepping the question.
“I can ID locations while you think about it,” he said.
“I’m not ready for more machines.”
“It’s a good return for little work. You’ve gone soft with your cushy government job.”
Now masked everywhere they went, she and Rudy replenished and maintained two machines four times a week. They used copious amounts of hand sanitizer, wore medical gloves while handling products, wiping them down with sanitary sheets before inserting them into the machines; they cleaned the machine buttons before and after servicing them. Vending machine income plummeted to a fraction of what it had been before the pandemic, motivating Rudy to push for an expansion. She wanted to sell the six gym machines, but Rudy wanted to ride out the disruption.
Months into the pandemic, he called saying he couldn’t make the run.
“What’s going on?”
“Emergency call,” he said.
“You can’t send someone else?”
“We’re short-staffed,” he said. “Can you handle both machines alone?”
Maneuvering the wagon in and out of the van and into the two buildings presented Mt. Everest-size challenges. At the railroad depot, she parked close to the entrance. The wagon rolled too fast down the portable ramp, catching her left heel multiple times. Fuck, she screamed aloud as pain seared her heel and radiated into her shin, her eyes watering from it. She bent over to rub her shin and heel and to collect herself once the wagon sat on flat ground. Then, the stupid wagon wobbled from the weight of cans and bottles as she pulled it toward the entrance. At the entrance, it tilted, sending a lemon-flavored soft drink flying. It hit the ground and exploded, spraying her, the wagon, and everything around her including the depot’s glass door with sticky liquid. Sticky from soft drink residue, she collected the still spraying can and tossed it into the trash. Although the paper towels felt damp, she cleaned the railroad depot’s glass door, instead smearing the stickiness. The hand sanitizer made her sticky hands worse. She rubbed her palms on her jeans.