Sticky Fingers in the Dark

We set our alarm for 5:30 this morning to take advantage of the kupuna (elders) hour of shopping at Foodland, the nearest super market in Princeville (6-7am).

Rain was thankfully light throughout the night but humidity hung heavy like a damp rag in the darkness as I fumbled in the dark for the key to unlock the door of our small-compact rental car. The electronic key fob does not work.

I've become so comfortable with keyless entry for my Prius at home. Realistically, I probably don't need to lock the car here, especially if there are no valuables inside. Many households here do not lock front doors to their homes.

I ask myself: Should I be wearing gloves? Be careful about what I touch.

A blast of dampness overwhelms me upon opening the car door. We haven't used the car for several days and it has rained with high-intensity showers. Inside the car smells like an upholstered greenhouse.

Placing the key in the ignition, I hear familiar Hawaiian music from the car radio that flows with floral, swaying subtleties of the islands. It helps to ground me.

Within a few minutes we pull into the dark parking lot where we see more vehicles than expected.

A woman employee checks those entering the market, estimating if they are, indeed, at least 60 years of age. I pass without a blink of her eye.

Not thinking I grab a shopping cart with my bare hands and grip the plastic-covered handle. Looking around I note than I am among the 50-percent shopping bare-handed. The other 50-percent are wearing gloves. Immediately my hands feel sticky. Just hold on, don't touch anything else.

I soon realize that I must touch the milk carton and the plastic bag containing bagels that I place in the shopping basket. My mind is rattled with sinking, infected notions. I feel as though I am passing the virus from cart handle to package.

It's not crowded and some shelves are vacant. I lose Barbara who has wandered off carrying the shopping bag she has brought from home. She never touches a shopping cart.

We meet near the cashier. I try to relax, yet people are moving very near to me. If one of them sneezes I am toast.

On our way out the door, I pull a wet "sanitized" paper towel from a small dispenser. I vigorously wipe my infected hands as a doctor would prepare for surgery.

Barbara informs me: "Those don't contain alcohol. They're sticky and will hold infection on your hands. They're worse."

A lump has formed in my throat. How do I enter the car without spreading the virus? I carefully pull the key from my pocket and place it into the ignition slot. I shudder as I hold the gear shift, then grip the steering wheel.

"Well, that was fun," I manage to say, as we head back to the condo.

Barbara says: "I'm going to take a shower before I do anything."