unassumingly I got a text this morning: My medications were ready for pickup at CVS.

Unlike, say, toilet paper, for which you can find crude substitutes (Kleenex, generic sandpaper tissue,  unwitting bunnies), there’s no substitute for Mycophenelic Acid. I had tried so sign up for home delivery, but they must be overloaded at CVS: the system kept crashing like the DOW.

There was no getting around it. I would have to venture out. Into stores. Mingle with masses.

So I geared up before heading out. I guess this is the new normal. Shower, scrub, forego lotion (My skin is dry as hell, but figure a warm, dry animal picks up fewer germs than a warm, moist, sticky one. Who knows? Corona probably loves desert mammals.).

Next, time to tool up: I have dozens of rubber hospital gloves from my many stays. And, like hotel stays, I help myself to the freebies, including toilet paper. People tease me for rationalizing the theft, to which I reply: I figure they’ll screw me over in the bill, anyway. So, in a way, that’s my TP. Now I see I should have hit more lodgings.

So on with the gloves, beneath a pair of cloth gloves. Follow that with a face mask I pocket, along with extra masks and gloves in the car. I bring my iPhone and ear buds, either to wend to music or cover up two more face holes. At this point, who knows?

The drug store is a breeze. So easy, in fact, I head to the grocery store. What could possibly go wrong with pushing your luck during a pandemic, I figure.

The grocery store was PACKED. I drive by once to see the exiting pedestrian traffic, to determine if I should shop looking I’m like Doogie Howser, M.D., prepping for surgery.

Only a few were wearing masks, so I entered just in gloves. Still, I was concerned walking in that I’d get that look that screams Oh, you believe the fake news, huh?

Instead, I was surrounded by believer. Zealots, even.

One woman shopped in full winter apparel: coat, hat, gloves, muffler, scarf around her face. One man held a mask to his mouth while he one-handedly placed groceries in a basket. Another man, either  amused or angry, zipped through the aisles in a dirty t-shirt, cargo shorts and sock-less sandals, huffing as shoppers created traffic jams to accommodate social-distancing.

But most unnerving was the look on the faces of shoppers. No one made eye contact in that store. It became so apparent I made a nuisance of myself, pulling out the ear buds and trying to look every person in the eye and smile as they passed. No one noticed, though I’m sure it caught the attention of the security guards who now patrol the aisles, either to enforce a capacity limit or billy club toilet paper rioters. And that’s not hyperbole. Someone needed to smack some sense into these suburban survivalists:

Luckily, there were no brawls over butt wipes that day. But the lack of eye contact bothered me long after I left the store.

This is where we typically shine, isn’t it? Remember the first responders? The school- and club- and church-shooting fearless? The annual parade of Hurricane heroes?

Not here. Not yet. Maybe we are nesting with a vengeance. Maybe the last three years have been a not-so-subtle message: You’re on your own. Maybe we just need time getting a rhythm down with the New World Order.

Whatever the answer, I made a final stop at my equivalent of the Cheers bar, 7-Eleven. Nobody knows my name there, but they know my face.

“How are you, brother?” I heard in a Middle Eastern accent. “Sorry for all the boxes.”

The store, like Ralph’s, was shoulder-high in boxes as suppliers tried to get goods to the distributors.

At the counter, the familiar cashier looked me in the eye and smiled. He began to pull out out plastic bags. Normally, they’re 15-cents a pop. But this cashier usually bags mine for free, unless the manager is around. Yeah, I’m kind of a big deal.

But as he tried to open a bag, his gloved hands could not get a grip on the plastic. He wore larger, bulky rubber gloves, the kind hot dog vendors wear when slinging weiners.

“I should have gloves like yours,” he said, pointing to my latexed hands. Yeah, I thought, medical-grade shit is always high quality. I could probably be a black market glove dealer.

Instead, I put them to another use. “Do you mind?” he asked, gesturing at the still-closed bag.

“Not at all,” I said, opening the bag easily, courtesy of the Valley Presbyterian Center.

So we stood there, as the line grew behind us: He, carefully packing the bags, while I waited and opened each one.

“Thank you my friend,” he said. Again, eye contact and a smile.

Sooner or later, we’ll all find that rhythm again.