Unfiltered Story #291581

It’s 8 months into what I lovingly call “The Plague.” I’m waiting on line at a rather popular chicken restaurant on Thanksgiving Eve, figuring I’ll treat myself instead of cooking tomorrow. The place is packed, as many others had the same idea, and food flying out the door faster than the poor employees can make it, especially turkey dinners (I decided on chicken). I turn find a skinny, scraggly older man standing uncomfortably close to me–if I were to reach into my pocket, my elbow would smack his arm. Everyone is wearing masks, but this guy is much too close for my comfort, so I ask him to please move back 6 feet. He budges maybe 6 inches.

THEN it starts. He asks me if I’m afraid. He says he’s not afraid. He says it’s no big deal. He says he gets tested every week. He asks me if I get tested every week. And on and on. I tell him I’m not afraid to get sick, I’m afraid I might have it and get someone else sick. (I got tested later that night and came up negative, thank GOD.) Finally the line moves enough where I can put enough distance between him and me, and mercifully, he doesn’t move to fill the space. His phone rings, and he engages in a loud conversation with someone for about 5 minutes or so.

My entire wait time was about 30 minutes or so, as was his. As he went to place his order, he was told they’d run out of turkey. Had he not been ranting and on his phone, he would have heard at least 3 employees tell at least 3 other customers in the past 20 minutes. He left without getting anything.