The New Prohibition

 

Author's Note:  The following is a work of fiction and not meant to represent anyone person or thing.  It is meant to spit in the eye of 2020.

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It was a day just like any other in America, 2021.   I had my usual proclivities; yoga at home, making sure my kids Zoom wasn't frozen and they weren't screwing around, and staying at least 20 feet away from Karen who goes around without her mask as she walks her annoying little dog.   The pantry was full of at least fifteen years worth of toilet paper that I got back in '20 when the big one hit Costco.  I still remember making the run, five miles uphill with a shopping cart in both directions, the TP piled so high you'd think it reach the stratosphere.  Those were the dark days.    Things weren't much better now.   

Every time someone slightly coughs you'd better expect everyone to duck and cover, tuck their head between their legs so far you'd think they were kissing their own butt goodbye.  No shave September was a bust, and if I was lucky a dame would have an extra pack of N95's from China in my favorite colors down at the hardware store in six months.  It's gotten to the point I don't remember my own wife's face anymore, but don't tell her I said that.

Which brings me here today, this dark alleyway on the wrong side of town.   See, there's one major thing I need, something that'll get me and everyone else involved in trouble if the Feds catch on.  Since the plague, it's gotten rarer and rarer, more precious than gold.   That's why I'm here, behind the pet store with the rest of the garbage.

A steel door with a slit set into the dirty brick greets me.   The instructions were clear and I knock three times.  The slit opens and a wrinkled set of eyes greets me.  "Yeah waddya want?"  The woman's voice is rough, probably tinged from long hours trying to make end's meet. 

"I'm here for the stuff."  I hiss.   "Jimmy Two-times sent me."

"Jimmy Two-times?   That slacker no good grifter owes me for Tuesday."  She scoffs.  "Ya got the stuff?"

"I do," I say lifting up a recycled paper grocery bag I stole from the store.   Time was we had to pay ten cents for these things here in California.  Now everyone's too afraid of dying to notice or care about a stupid bag.  

"The good stuff," I continue, bringing out a bottle of clear liquid.  "Pure 99.9 percent antibacterial with aloe."

"Yeah, I got fourty of those,"  She says.  "What else?"

"I got an extra sleeve or two of toilet pa-" 

She cuts me off mid word, "Kid I got enough toilet paper to build the pyramids."   

I don't say anything.   "Well, I pay by card not cash.  But if your hard up, I got some dimes and-"

Those dark, narrow eyes widen.  Dimes are almost extinct now after all.   "Dimes?   I could use em.   Last week customer came in, didn't have a card, had to give him a hundred pennies."    There's a sound of a few dozen bolts, a latch, a heavy metal and metal sound.  A small Japanese lady with pink house slippers and her hair in curlers stands there about waist height to me.  

"Come in quickly.   Were you followed?"

"No, I made sure."    Its a back room of the groomers, lots of dog treats in boxes where they've been since March of 20 when the end came.   There wasn't any rapture, and the four horsemen might have been preferable to Groundhog day.

"This way,"  She says, going over to a door.   She knocks twice.   A knock comes back and the door opens.   A round African American woman with cokebottle glasses greets me. 

There's tables set up where the groomers used to be, but what's different from grooming a dog and a person in this day and age?   The curtains are drawn and everything's dark enough you'd think a roadflare would be lost.   Everything's perfectly clean though, neatly arranged, waiting for the dogs and owners to come back in.   The few customers inside are all at least 6 feet apart, masked.  The proprietors are all masked.   Not a month ago, this was fine, they were following procedure set out by our Dear Leaders.  The world was burning down, but this was fine.   

"Take a seat,"   she says.  I notice her nametag reads "Damia."  

"Thanks for letting me in Damia."  I say.

"Yeah, yeah no problem.  Now what's it going to be?  A little off the top or take it all?"

"Shear it, give me the New Zealand special."    I say.  She nods and gets to work, carefully lifting my mask.

"Got to hand it to you, glad to see that someone can still do this, pretty hard when the Feds keep moving the goal posts."   I start.   Then seeing her stare at me down through her glasses, I realize I'm supposed to be quiet now, hold my breath.  Don't want the creeping crud to possibly escape if I maybe, possibly have it.    I grumble to myself.  My last four tests all came back negative.   It's gotten to the point you can shove a palm tree up my nose and it might still tickle though.

Before long, the floor's littered so much of my brown hair you'd think I was a yeti. I feel about 20 pounds lighter.  At least now I can see without binoculars perched on my nose to get around my own dreads.  

"That'll be fourty-thirty nine,"  Damia says without skipping a beat.  I've gotten used to such prices to get a spot for a haircut.  I call it this whole ordeal French Laundry system back home, but I don't dare to make that joke here.   It's still too soon.

I nod and reach into one pocket to pull out my gloves, slipping them on.  Then into another to get the tongs I always use, gingerly fishing out my card from the wallet.   Damia takes it with the trepidation of someone trying to handle red-hot uranium.   Soon enough deed's done.  There's no need for a receipt, that's just another risk.  

"If someone asks, you tell 'em that we're planning to open 2025."   The owner tells me as she shows me the back door.   I nod, glad at least there wasn't a raid.   Last week I heard the bar down the street got fined fourteen-thousand dollars for letting a guy inside to check for termites.   They offered him a bottle of water and that was their first and last mistake.

As I head out the alley, mask on and hoodie up, no one will hopefully recognize me.  I slip in, six feet apart from the next person in line at Trader Joes down the street to wait and buy a barrel of milk for sixty bucks.