Just received a package requiring a signature but, of course, I am not allowed to touch the little machine. Our UPS guy tells me that he has to sign for me, and the company has required they sign as “COVID-19.” He holds up the little machine to show me. I verbally approve.

Went for a long walk. My neighbors and I all orbited around each other in wide arcs, like planets.

Jack has a vet appointment (an “essential service”) but the public isn’t allowed inside. We wait with other sick dogs and their people on the sidewalk, far apart. They take him in and we will wait in my truck. Jack’s vet will call us on the phone, and then we’ll go collect him.

I buy some beers from a brewery taproom I happen to pass. “No Bar Service. 5 Customers At a Time” the door says. I’m checking out and ask “When did you open?” “Next week.” I tip 50%, though I don’t really have it.

Our grocery installed tall, clear plastic partitions between where the checkout clerk stands and the customer lane. There’s a little cutout for the credit card machine. “How’s it been?” I ask the owner, who is ringing me up. “Fine, brother. Fine. Not sick yet.”

Last night the people in my dreams were wearing face masks.

What few local businesses I can still enter, I pause before I do. To see how crowded it is. And to look for guidance: a sign explaining I should call first; orders are online only; pleases santize your hands before entry.

“Sorry for the inconvenience”

Alongside the chip bags, plastic bottles and bodega bags the sidewalks are slowly filling also with discarded masks and rubber gloves.

Two weeks ago, talking to the few strangers I must, I felt an urge to remove my mask to be heard.

Today, talking with a nurse at the vet, I forgot I was wearing it. I realized I’ve never seen her without one.

The grocery store is one in one out now, and mask required. A loose group of men collects out front, waiting for their partners. A woman realizes she forgot her mask. Her boyfriend wraps his coat tightly around her face and the shop owner concedes. “Ok, just... be safe,” he says.

Today I googled “how often must a car be driven”.

Had to go to the studio. The mailman and front desk guy were comparing how many family members they’ve lost, and the length each was hospitalized before they passed. The longest I heard was two days.

Every weekday at 7pm, a few of the white families on our block open their windows and clap, and bang pots. One family has a professionally printed, weatherproof sign thanking “Essential Workers” on their gate. It has a big, red heart on it.

There is more broken glass in the streets than usual. A very small amount of it is from the windows of cars that havent moved in weeks.

The community garden’s mini free library is bound shut with red tape. A pile of waterlogged books spills from a trash bag beside it. A marker note on red paper says “FOR YOUR OWN GOOD PLEASE STOP THIS THE VIRUS LIVES ON SURFACES”.

Drove to midtown for a doctor’s appointment. Stopped at an intersection next to a hip clothing chain, dark. All the plants inside had withered and died. The floor by the window was covered in leaves.

Hard to tell with my beard, but I may have a mask tan.

The weather app I use has started showing the number of infected, and dead, alongside the city’s temperature and chance of precipitation.

One of the midtown Rolex shops had tall, wooden walls built around it. They’re forest green. Heard a rumor they pay people to repaint them every week or so.

Livery drivers have started installing plastic sheets between the front and rear seats. Peering in one car I saw gloves and masks for passengers. No more small bottled waters, or gum.

A man dropped his mustard at the grocery store. I picked it up for him and felt compelled to say I’d just sanitized my hands (I had). “Man we good!” he said. “This thing got everyone plague-minded. We good. We helping each other.”

I can hear the demonstrators from our open window. A cop car burns outside a close friends house.

There is a new subtext to the signs thanking essential workers which include the police.

Waiting in line outside the coffee shop. The barista explains to the man in front of me he must wear a mask. He is nervous, and careful doing it. An awkward moment passes. The man pulls an American flag bandana from his pocket and ties it around his head.

Seated in a white, plastic tent and my nurse says “I can tell you’re stressed, but good news: you’re already done.” “Wow, you’re good at that,” and after a pause, “which makes sense.” “We got our numbers back last week - we’ve drawn blood from over 10,000 people since mid-April.”

Waiting in line at the nearly full bodega. Everyone in masks, 6 feet apart, quiet. It's hot. We all have waters. Two police walk in. They're in a great mood. No masks, talking loud, standing close. The woman next to me narrows her eyes over her mask.

The ‘Restaurant Seating Depot’ a mile from our apartment is going out of business. A sign nearly the size of the building - a quarter block long, four stories tall - shows a stool next to bright, dynamic text reading “COVID-19 SALE! EVERYTHING MUST GO! UP TO 80% OFF!”

Started putting slightly longer versions of these on my ~website~ when I took that twitter break. Likely will keep doing that. There's 5 so far. Just put up the fifth.

https://rugnetta.com/2020/09/08/every-day-5-required-for-entry/

(patreon, too, as public posts... if you prefer that feed to a wp RSS:

https://www.patreon.com/posts/every-day-5-for-41394285)

I have not seen a tourist in weeks, possibly months.

In their photos on wheat pasted billboards, the local dealership and furniture store owners are wearing masks. The ads mention safety a lot.

My wife and I walk into a restaurant in a small town. People are sitting inside at the bar. The hostess asks if we’d like to be seated inside or out. It’s difficult to answer as though our choice is not obvious.