Assembly Line

Week one.

After 9/11, I think it was about a week before we returned to normal life.  We were shocked and scared and devastated but is was on the other side of the country.   I barely remember the Cuban Missile crisis but even that blew over quickly.  Himself says that I am more likely to be struck by lightening than contract Coronavirus.  I am not frightened.  I know the odds.  We are to be home for a while.  I’ve made a good dent in the to-do list.  I have two novels left but am also reclaiming an old Kindle to partake of infinite digital offerings. 

The news is on, not to provoke anxiety, but because I’m mesmerized.  Nothing like this has ever happened before.  Ultimately the spring of 2020 will be relegated to the repository of “big events.”  Assassinations.  Earthquakes. And now “The Great Sequestration.”  I walk every day.  The dog has never been happier.  I am loathe to admit that I find personal gratification at a time that heralds giant suffering.  The solitude of just me and CNN is in some ways tonic.  The peace of not having to be anywhere.  Almost experimentally, I’ve worn the same outfit for the whole week.  I will wash the jeans and t-shirt but can’t imagine a more comfortable ensemble, so I’ve likely got my social distance uniform.

Week 2

After a week of home solitude, I volunteer at the Los Angeles Unified School “Grab and Go” project.  I am sent to nearby Lincoln High School, one of the first schools I worked at over thirty years ago.  The office where I worked as a teacher advisor is now a small bank branch. Otherwise the campus is as I remember it.   The first day I am assigned to steer cars safely out of the driveway.  I point and smile and wave.  It is cold but it feels good to be outdoors.  And, after what must have been a very stressful week for many, without work and groceries, people are happy to receive bags with breakfast and lunch.

After being outdoors the first day, I am assigned henceforward to the assembly line in the cafeteria.   Bags are filled with breakfast items.  Cereal.  Granola bars.  Packaged pancakes.  Sweet rolls.   Juice.  Milk, sometimes chocolate.  A pear or an apple or an orange.  Lunch is bean burritos, sandwiches, or salads.  There are tiny bags of sunflower seeds.  Frozen fruit popsicles.  Goldfish.   Folks can ask for as many as five lunches and five breakfasts.  Although the volunteer staff number remains static, the number of meals dispensed increases every day.  We provide 3000 meals the first day that I work, and 7000 most recently.

I am the oldest volunteer and the only teacher.  Most of the others are tutors and teaching assistants in their twenties. We work along with the cafeteria ladies, Red Cross and Civil Air Patrol. We wear aprons, masks, ill-fitting gloves and hairnets.  It is reassuring to learn that even my younger co-workers complain about fatigue and aches from repetitive motion.  I put something in a bag and pass it on.  I feel like Lucy in the chocolate factory.  I am never fast enough.  And when an item runs out, a replacement carton needs to be fetched and opened.  Only the cafeteria ladies are allowed to use box cutters.   The choice is to hold up the line and wait or grab a box and rip it open with your bare hands.

I realize that I can perform my task efficiently from a seated position and sit down briefly.  One of the cafeteria ladies says that she knew I was a teacher because I was always sitting down.  I actually sit down for only about twenty minutes and I take umbrage.   “Teachers work hard,” I tell her.  I am usually on my feet teaching for nearly 30 hours every week.  She apologizes, but in my fatigue, I give her a cold shoulder.  Later it dawns on me, that I’m not really being dissed.  She is just taking pride in the strength and stamina of the cafeteria workers.   And they do fill the bags more quickly and load them onto heavy steel trays.  They hoist big boxes and scrub down everything with bleach.  And they arrive a half an hour before the volunteers and stay an hour later. I don’t sit down anymore, and I always smile at the “sitting down” lady when I see her.  Even though I am wearing a mask.

The shift is from 6:30 to 11:30 a.m.  We are paid a minimum wageish stipend.  I come home in the afternoon, tend to the little bit of business there is, take a walk in the green hills, and then become one with the sofa.  There are online teacher’s meetings and we are encouraged to provide distance learning for our students.  I send them little assignments but have chosen not to have Zoom sessions, despite being encouraged to do so.  Many of my students have no Internet and limited data plans on their phones.  I don’t want them to feel like they’ll be missing out if they don’t use their precious data for an online class.

Apparently, there will be a rotation of volunteers for the food distribution centers this week.  I won’t find out where or if I am to work Monday morning until late Sunday night.  I consider resigning from the volunteer corps, but I won’t. Although I won’t be heartbroken if there is no assignment for the coming week.  It’s apparent that my house isn’t going to get any cleaner and no novels will be written.  My only other occupation is finding groceries.  Fortunately, we have toilet paper from a discounted Amazon subscription, but I’ve been unable to find chicken or lentils or spinach or flour or yeast or potatoes.  The freezer and the pantry are full and there is no danger of starvation but it’s a challenge to work only with what’s on hand.

The last week of school we are working on getting the students revved up to complete the Census.  As they file out one night, I have each of them tell me how many people live in their house.  Most of them live with five or six people and a number report nine or ten residents.  Our split-level house allows each of us to sequester on a separate floor.  While I can’t find a lot of the things that we’re used to eating, the pantry and freezer are full. Himself is teaching on-line and we’re both being paid.  Many of my students work in restaurants or as housekeepers.  Even when the stimulus and unemployment payments start, most won’t be eligible.  I’ll stuff food bags for as long as I’m called to.  We have ample toilet paper, so I won’t have to weigh in with my Facebook friends on the quest for the perfect bidet.  And I don’t look as bad as I thought I would in a hairnet.