Thursday, September 24th, 2020

The shopkeeper where I pick up my packages whistles and waves at me. It takes me a moment to notice, since I’m listening to a podcast on my headphones. I cross the street to him. “Why haven’t you picked up your package? It’s been waiting for two weeks.” I hadn’t been notified. “Yes, you have. You received the SMS. Package 1077.” We head to the back of the shop. He pulls it off the shelf and scans it. Nothing happens. He scans it again. He slumps into his chair and runs the scanner very slowly over the sticker. Nothing. That explains why I wasn’t notified. He types in the code. It takes him a few tries. Humans shouldn’t have to type arbitrary letters and numbers. Finally, he gets it right. “ID Code!” I recite the number then sign the screen with a finger. He shoves the package at me. I thank him. He grunts. Down the road, a man wearing tallit and tefillin sits, his legs straddling a low wall, as he says his morning prayers. When I get to work, the woman who fears elevators is standing in the lobby, waiting frantically for someone to help her. “Sir, are you taking the elevator up?” I am. “To what floor?” The fourth. “I am only going to the second.” That’s OK. We can stop there. “Thank you, sir!” The elevator arrives. Another woman is already on it. Normally, I would wait for the next one, since no more than two people should be on an elevator. The woman who is already there waves us aboard. She is going to the fifth floor. I press the buttons for the second and fourth. When we reach the second floor, I hold the door open for the fearful woman. She blesses us, singularly and together, in the masculine, feminine, and plural forms: “Be well. Be well. Be well.”