I thrust out my hand for a good old-fashioned, pre-Covid handshake before I caught sight of the yellow wrist band Jenkins was wearing. He and his wife recoiled in horror. Terri gave me a subtle jab in the ribs and shook her head.
But it was too late. I was well into my end of the handshake, and now my arm was extended in a kind of suspended animation. The four of us stood in the bread aisle with Jenkins and his wife staring at my hand as if it were covered in cooties.
I was wearing the little green wristband I picked up at the front of the store. It was supposed to signal a “go” to other shoppers, letting them know I was fine with a handshake. Jenkins had chosen a yellow band signifying he was being cautious and only comfortable with elbow contact.
I had a couple of options now that I had made a post pandemic faux pas. I could pull my hand back and offer an elbow and we could do that awkward little elbow bumping thing. But that felt so 2020. Or, I could try and salvage the moment by pointing at the bread behind Jenkins and saying, “Oh look Terri, there are the kaiser rolls.”
But both felt contrived. I decided to go with a third option and address the misstep head on.
“Too soon, huh?” I asked, pulling my hand back.
“Yes,” Jenkins said, his tone serious.
I glanced at Terri. She smiled politely at Jenkins wife, who was also sporting a yellow wristband.
“I know,” I said, feigning sympathy. “It was such a horrible thing. You guys were well through it all?” I asked.
“We were, thank you,” Jenkins said.
Hmmm. It was puzzling. Maybe he’s just more cautious than I remember.
“Chuck’s never been a fan of handshakes,” his wife said.
For the life of me I couldn’t recall her name.
“Oh I get it,” Terri said, hoping to smooth things over and maybe find us an exit ramp out of this. “It is a bit of an odd way of greeting one another.”
“It’s more than a bit odd,” Jenkins said, speaking now with a fair amount of attitude.
The exchange ended and we went off in different directions. I glanced back and saw them turn the corner and head for the pharmacy.
“Geez, that was tense,” I said.
“You should really be better about checking what bands people are wearing,” Terri said. “Just because you’re green doesn’t mean everyone else is.”
“What’s his wife’s name?” I asked.
“Cynthia.”
“I swear I remember shaking hands with him in the past,” I said. “Maybe the pandemic whacked him out a bit. I guess it kind of changed us all to a degree.”
I pushed the cart and we turned the corner and went up the pasta aisle. Terri went on ahead to pick up the sauce while I scanned the shelves for the penne. I maneuvered around a guy and his cart and walked back a few feet to get the pasta.
“Ahem,” he said, loudly clearing his throat as I grabbed a box.
I offered him the box and said, “Oh, I’m sorry, was this your box of pasta?”
That got me another “ahem,” and a he shook his forearm at me showing off a red wristband.
I shook my forearm back showing off my green band like we were doing some sort of weird introductory ritual.
“Six feet,” he said.
“Ah, yes,” I said, apologizing.
I remembered the sign at the front of the store near the red bands. “Six feet apart. No exceptions.”
I backed away with my box of penne and waited for him to finish and move on so I could get another box. He seemed to be taking an extra long time now examining the ingredients.
“It’s just pasta,” I said.
He shot me a dirty look and moved on and I grabbed a couple more boxes as Terri returned.
“Let’s see if we can find someone you haven’t offended,” she said.
“This post-pandemic world is a minefield,” I said.
We were on our way to the fish counter when a young store associate approached, smiling his best young store associate smile. He wore a green vest with the word “Associate” on it to let everyone know he both worked here, and was approachable.
“Everything good today, folks?” he asked.
Terri gave him a yes, and I said, “Couldn’t be better.”
“Good, good,” he said, narrowing his attention to me. “Sir, I’d like to ask that you pay extra special attention to the social band code that’s in effect here at Miller’s.”
“He struggles with new rules,” Terri said.
“Understood, Austin,” I said, reading his name tag.
“We do have a three strikes policy in effect, sir,” Austin said, “and we saw you had two offenses in the last few minutes.”
“Saw?” I said. “How the hell did you see?”
“That’s not important, sir,” Austin said, his tone going from welcoming to official. “What is important is that we don’t have people going around trying to glad hand shoppers who aren’t quite ready for a full re-entry into society.”
“Full re…”
“Yes, sir. Some people may not be ready to shake your sweaty paw just because you offer it. So, please, be mindful,” Austin said. “Or be gone.”
The kid left and I looked at Terri. “Geez, they’re watching us,” I said.
“You,” she said.
I heard a commotion at the end of the aisle behind me and turned to see Wilson smacking someone on the back and laughing like they were long lost friends. He spotted me and yelled, “Hey, look who it is.”
He wore green wristbands on both wrists and smiled as he approached.
“Aren’t these great,” he said shaking his arms to show off the bands. “It makes things so much easier.”
“Not for all of us,” Terri said.
Wilson reached out to shake hands. I hesitated.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I have one strike left.”
“Huh?” Wilson said.
“And you just used it,” a voice said, from behind me.
I turned to see Austin approaching. “Rebuffing a gesture inviting physical contact from a fellow same-color band wearer is an offense. By choosing your color you agree to abide by all of the social norms implied in said color. It’s right there on the sign at the band distribution table at the front of the store.”
“I…I…didn’t see it,” I said.
“You can look at it on the way out. Please come with me, sir.”