silkroadcowboy

Keys in hand, Joe is most of the way to the front door when he hears Claudia from the kitchen.

“Mask”. One word.

“Yep.”

He grabs one from the box in the coat closet and leaves for work.

The white N95, with its nifty protruding filter, sits there next to him on the front seat like some bizarre nosecone for a miniature space shuttle. Wouldn’t that be nice, he thinks. Escape the third rock from the sun for somewhere sane.

“Beam me up, Scotty. No intelligent life down here”, he says out-loud and shakes his head.

In the months since “The Great Lockdown” ended, he has returned to work under the rule that these masks were mandatory to get into the building. Everyone had to wear them at all times. Joe has grown to detest the fucking things.

He hates the way his glasses fog. The humidity of his breath, trapped in the confines of the mask, make his nose itch. He had to shave off his droopy mustache, which he had since college days, because the masks are so irritating. He dreads putting one on. It pisses him off.

Two blocks from the office building, Joe thinks about the shitty work which he now depends on to keep the house and get the kids into some university program that is not attended from the kitchen table. So now he sings from the company hymnal, loud and clear, so that the higher-ups know he loves his job.

Pulling into the underground garage he takes a deep breath and puts on his game face.

His work mask.

He grabs the N95 off the seat and slips it on. Properly disguised, he steps out of the car, into the new normal.