The Virus that Wears a Crown

by Salomé Shubitidze

Walking into the pharmacy, I see an elderly man struggling to carry his bags. His spine is bent, his walk is frail, and the cane he leans on wobbles under his weight. I move to ask him if he needs help, but the look of distress and terror I see in his eyes freezes me in place. “No, no, no. Thank you— but that’s alright sweetheart—please keep your distance.” I give a nod of acknowledgment and move on; my face flushes with embarrassment. Dr. Fauci’s hoarse voice abruptly resounds in my head, remember that you can also be a carrier.

Moving through the store, I watch as people keep their distance. Someone’s sneeze or cough leaves the the virus lingering in the air for a few seconds. But only for a few seconds, since gravitational forces pull it down. Never have I been so grateful to Newton for discovering why an apple falls from a tree. At least as I wander the aisles, I know the air is safe, after a few seconds. Right?

Paranoia creeps up on me as I wander aimlessly among the aisles. I don’t touch anything that I don’t have to. I wipe down my cart several times. I avoid people. In fact, everyone keeps their distance. A minimum of six feet to be exact. So that the air we inhale is not mixed with whatever they exhale and vice versa.

For that reason, no one stands in one place for too long. No one starts up a conversation. No one smiles. Instead everyone gives a curt nod when they pass each other. A gesture that says, I understand that everything is uncertain, I realize this is all crazy, I know we’ll all make it out okay. All packaged in one dip of the head. Six feet apart. A new normal.

At checkout, a bright yellow strip of tape lines the carpeted floor about four feet from the counter. Am I not meant to pass it? I fumble with my items, dropping one on the floor, scrambling to grab it, balancing the other ones, all while trying to lean across this imaginary dividing line. The cashier has a mask on, but I still see her eyes squint, and her eyebrows raise, disappointed in my clumsiness. She scans my items wearing blue nitrile gloves. When I leave she sprays the counter down, and squirts a dollop of hand sanitizer on the center of her palm. When I get in my car, I do the same.

Sometimes I try to picture our invisible adversary. I take my glasses off, and blur my vision so that little specks of gray drift across my sight. I know what I see are just shadows of gel floaters cast onto my retina, but it still gives me some sense of solace to pretend that I can see the virus that has killed nearly eighty-five thousand people.

If I could see COVID-19, I would be able to watch its protective lipid envelope fall apart when smothered in soap. I would be able to see it stop moving when drenched in ethanol. Instead, I scrub my hands with a bar of soap like a surgeon would preparing for surgery. And I carry a mini bottle of Germ-X around incase I touch anything someone else could have touched. My hands have started to look raw and cracked as the constant cycle of soap and sanitizer strip away my skin’s natural oils.

If I could see COVID-19, pharmacies and grocery stores wouldn’t feel like a venture into pitch black darkness. If I could see COVID-19, I wouldn’t be so afraid of the virus that hijacks my immune system. The virus that causes severe lung inflammation. The virus that wears a crown.