Alligators

There are few things more endearing than a tribe of hollering, dirt smeared urchins in ragged clothes descending on an unsuspecting drugstore while their scrawny, scantily clad, chin to ankle tattooed, meth addled mother tries to make sense of her change to pay for her smokeless tobacco. She swats absent mindedly at the children, cursing under her breath and yelling for them to behave. Most are running wild, pulling items off the shelves and chasing each other through the aisles. The one in the stroller begins to wail. Not a single child or their mother is wearing a mask and one older child is busy trying to rip the social distancing markings off the floor. Distracted drugstore staff are trying to pretend none of it is happening while management has done their well practiced disappearing act. It’s chaos at its best.

“Alligators,” I tell the cashier, making no effort to be discreet, “They eat their young.”

“Sound practice,” she tells me and smiles over her mask.

I pay for my cigarettes and make my escape.