Foreign Deja Vu

You need to go to the store.

Eggs

Milk

Bread

Toilet paper

When you get to the store, you can’t find a place to park. Everyone in Springfield is there. You patiently patrol until you find a spot in the very last row furthest from the entrance. You’re young, it’s okay if you must walk. You step through the automatic doors, and the greeter says hi. You say hi back and grab a cart. You wait in line to get a sanitizer wipe. You have never had to wait in line just to get a sanitizer wipe before. When you do get to the stand, you only take one. The greeter walks over, grabs your cart, and thanks you. She says people have been greedy. A corner of your mouth pulls up and you say it’s not a problem.

You start to dislike people who take more than they need.

You go through the gate and hang a left to get bread that is not there. Shelves where the bread used to be. No matter. You can do without. You head to the back of the store to get milk and eggs that are not there. Shelves where the eggs used to be. Empty refrigerators where the milk used to be. You still have a little left at home. You can do without. Surely, they still have toilet paper. You take a few steps over to the paper goods, and that’s when you notice their faces. You recognize them. They go to this store as often as you. Confused faces where the toilet paper used to be. They too have never seen it like this before.

Eggs

Milk

Bread

Toilet paper

You wave goodbye to the greeter. You’re the only one to acknowledge her today.

You decide to go for a walk when you get home. That always helps. You take the route you always do and go down to the lakes. You see the same houses, the same streets, but all the cars are in the driveways. You didn’t realize there were even people living in these houses, because the driveways were always empty. They are too far away from the street, but you can’t shake the feeling of eyeballs peering through the curtains. You go home without seeing geese.

You wonder if they are in quarantine too.

You have a couple of hours before you must pick your sister up from work, so you watch the news. The news still looks like news, but all the words are the same. You never thought you’d see the day when FOX and CBS are saying the same thing. Same three channels, same 6 anchors per channel, same words. You turn off the news.

You wonder if it is really people talking, or just their heads.

It’s four o’clock, and you get in the van to go get your sister. You take the route you always do. Overcast sky and fog hugging the ground disguise the familiar street. Driving up Battlefield is like driving at 2 am. You can count the number of cars on the road. The mall parking lot is totally empty. The shape of the streets, buildings, and traffic lights are all the same, yet you can’t shake the feeling that you have never been here before.

And, you’re right.

You have never been here before. This is the first world crisis you have had to deal with as an adult. You were six when 9/11 happened. Your first political memory was President Bush’s bullhorn speech on a pile of rubble at Ground Zero. You couldn’t understand why a mean person would drive a plane into a building and kill people, let alone two. Dad always said, “We’re fighting over there, so we don’t have to fight here.” Instead of Iraqi Air Raid Drills in school, it’s Active Shooter Drills. You were born into chaos, yet this somehow seems bigger. Even the terrorists are terrified. The enemy has always been catchable or killable before. How do you assassinate a virus?

“Sarah, it’s green,” your sister says. There’s no one behind you to honk their horn and wake you up from the nightmare.

Stop. Stay home.

Go. Get bread.

Yield. Stay six feet away.

Go. Drive back to what will never be normal again.

Your only guides are the traffic lights.