SANITIZER

Selah Randolph

Kennesaw State University

I gingerly readjust my Hawaiian-print mask for the sixth time, pulling it up the bridge of my nose and squinting in the early-morning sunlight. In front of me, a line of disgruntled customers stretches out of sight. Behind me a line of bright red shopping carts, glistening with sanitizer, do the same. I spray another squirt of sanitizer on the nearest one to appease the watching crowd, knowing full well I’ve cleaned the cart twice already. “Ma’am, you’re welcome to head inside.” I push the handle towards the lucky blonde in question. “No, the sanitizer is not for sale,” I announce firmly. “Thank you for your patience,” I add, smiling as she snatches the cart and wheels it through the sliding glass doors. It is Saturday, and I’ve been here since five in the morning. My smile is not disingenuous. I love these people. I love being with them in their rawest reality. I am learning what it means to rejoice, learning to choose love when I’d rather not.

“Rejoice always,” I grumble to myself as I heave my aching body out of bed at the harsh cry of a 4:30 alarm. It is a small white cube I bought at Target, battery powered. I slam it against the wall to silence it; it is now smug and silent. Coffee on, sweatshirt on, battered Converse on. Coffee spills on my sweatshirt. My eyes soften into laughter. I forget my nametag nine times out of ten to the eternal frustration of my boss, Mark, who won’t fire me even though I keep reminding him it’s an option every time he pesters me about the absent nametag. “I prefer anonymity,” I explain as I throw twenty-four cans of diced tomatoes on the top shelf in thirty seconds. He groans and walks away. For the last several months, I’ve worked the morning shift as my older coworkers stretch their paid leave as long as they can. Soon, some will trickle back as their bills become more urgent. They will wear gloves and masks; they will sanitize everything within reach. I will see the fear in their eyes when a customer leans in to ask a question more loudly, when an eye roll turns into a mask yanked down and pushed into their face. But for now, these friends are safe at home. I am more than happy to take the extra hours and this new excuse to procrastinate my online homework. The morning shift goes quickly. We spend the three hours before we open breaking down pallets and boxes, shoving product on shelves as quickly as we can. Before opening, I snatch a quick break, a cup of coffee sipped slowly in the back, by the dumpster. This becomes my morning ritual. The sunlight drips from

the trees like molten gold, and I breathe unhindered and cradle a steaming mug between my hands. I pause, leaning into love, content. I am learning that isolation shoves people into vulnerability. I see it in their eyes; they hunger for human connection. This mother, out of her home for the first time in weeks or months, with frustrated mirth in her eyes as she tells stories of her home descending into chaos while her husband tries desperately to work from the basement. This student with tired blue eyes and faded blonde hair, graduating quietly, alone and without a plan in the world in this wild new reality. A new father, unshaven and wild-eyed, yelling in excitement as he buys bananas and milk and chocolate and shows me pictures of his infant through the plexiglass. I absorb these emotions. I am heavy and tired and cannot release these burdens. Soon, I learn how to let the grief of these people flow through a lens of compassion and bleed out onto the varnished floor beneath my shoes. I take it, hold it briefly, respond in love, and then let it walk out the door with them. I am learning that compassion should not be a burden. I am learning that rejoicing does not mean ignoring pain; it means embracing it and allowing it to work fully.

I finish my coffee and peel myself off the sunny pavement behind the store. I catch myself when I begin to fall into exhaustion. We laugh, all of us essential workers, when people thank us like we just pulled them out of a burning building. My friend rolls her eyes as another couple expresses their undying gratitude. “Essentially,” she mutters under her breath, “I’m fucking exhausted.” We laugh. I love them; I love them all. It’s just a job. It’s just a morning. It’s just eight hours. It’s just life. It is exhausting and painful and beautiful and slightly above minimum wage.

“Rejoice always,” I think as my mask takes its rightful place on my face and I run register and I run around and I run into people who need something, everything, and nothing I can give them. I answer questions that become louder and more frantic as the day wears on. No, there’s no more toilet paper in the back. Yes, we’re open every day. No, you can’t skip the line. Yes, I do have to wear this mask. Yes, I understand how difficult it is for you to breathe in that. Yes, I’m sorry that you can’t think and wear this mask. Please wear it anyway. No, please don’t— MA’AM, PLEASE DO NOT PULL DOWN—ma’am. Please put your mask back on and kindly remove your face from mine. Okay. Another spray of sanitizer. The sunlight shines and a split- second rainbow glistens in the mist of seventy-percent isopropyl alcohol.