Friday, July 17, 2020

The shopkeeper steps into the back room where customers pick up packages. I’ve been waiting for him. I say “Good morning.” He doesn’t look up. “You said that already.” I had. It had taken a while for him to get back here. I had forgotten. He slaps my packages down on the table. “Your identity number, Mr. Zitt.” He knows me by now. I tell him. When he enters it, it doesn’t work. “Your correct identity number.” I tell it to him again, identically. It works this time. “Why didn’t you pick up your packages yesterday?” I usually get them on the way to work. I was already at work when I got the text messages. I tell him. “So you work. Do you do hard work?” I shrug. He pushes the packages forward on the desk. “Good day. Go home.” I head off to the mall. At the cafe, I order the usual breakfast from the usual person. “What type of bread would you like? Right now we just have white.” That choice is easy. I get almost all the way through ordering in Hebrew. I don’t quite understand one question -- not because of language but because of the background hums and chatter. She switches to English. This time I hear her. When she has all the details, she asks. “What is your name? It’s Yosef, right?” Right. I take my receipt and sit down to wait.