Since the pandemic hit, local liquor sales have risen by 24 percent—this, in spite of the fact most restaurants and bars have been shuttered. Turns out, social drinking isn’t customary here in Mormon-dominated Utah. What we do is buy booze in bulk and consume it in secret behind closed doors, or out behind the barn or deep in the woods far from the prying eyes of judgmental neighbors. Hence, an affliction peculiar to the Beehave State known as neurosis of the liver.
Anything stronger than beer is sold only in state controlled liquor stores, which in turn acquire inventory from a huge, windowless warehouse on Seventeenth South that resembles Fort Knox. Selection isn’t great, but what can you do? Drive west a hundred miles to Nevada, or east to Wyoming—which, in fact, I did last week, only to discover, to my horror that I was the only masked man in Evanston. So I guess I’m gonna buy locally, and abide by the strictly-enforced social distancing rules. At my nearest outlet, for example, no more than ten customers are allowed in the store at one time. Everyone else waits outside in what I shall call a dotted line—each customer standing six feet apart from the next. In other words, twelve feet of space allotted per standee. At such times I begin to feel very lonesome, and evidently I’m not alone. For instance, the other day the man standing six feet in front of me suddenly realized he’d forgotten his facemask and asked me to hold his spot while he retrieved it from his car. So there I stood, maintaining a distance of not six but twelve feet from the person in line ahead of me. People behind me began to murmur that I should close the gap. I murmured back, using absurd hand gestures, that I was holding a spot for a man who wasn’t there.
Things were beginning to get heated, but then the man who had forgotten his mask returned and thanked me for holding his spot.
“I get confused lately,” he explained. “Things are so strange. Last week my wife told me she wanted a divorce. After twelve years! She’s taking the two kids and the house, and now I have to find a place to live.”
“That sucks,” I said. But to be honest, I wasn’t making a frowny face behind my mask. Fact is, I was delighted to be someone’s confidante.
“Last night I got a call from a woman I used to know,” he continued. “She wanted to talk, and we ended up spending the night together.”
Pretty much everyone in line was now leaning in. I told him I was sorry about his marriage breaking up, but happy that he’d found a new soul mate. Christ, we should all be so lucky!
Presently, the door opened; one customer exited and one entered. The conga line inched forward; the conversation continued. I learned the man’s occupation, and about what a tough time he was having making ends meet nowadays. And now, in addition to mortgage payments and child support, he’d be struggling to pay rent on an apartment. In other words, although we were standing six feet apart in a parking lot, it was kinda like sitting on adjacent bar stools. Too bad we didn’t have a barkeeper instead of a doorkeeper. I’d have bought my newfound friend a drink.
