{"id":1902,"date":"2020-05-05T16:04:56","date_gmt":"2020-05-05T16:04:56","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/peykmagazine.com\/en\/?p=1902"},"modified":"2020-05-05T16:05:49","modified_gmt":"2020-05-05T16:05:49","slug":"thats-bull","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/peykmagazine.com\/en\/2020\/05\/05\/thats-bull\/","title":{"rendered":"That\u2019s Bull\u2019!"},"content":{"rendered":"

Short Story<\/span><\/p>\n

That’s Bull!<\/span><\/h3>\n

By Ali Sahebalzamani<\/span><\/p>\n

The water flows over the skin on the back of my hands; it takes a moment for it to soak through the ashen layer of dead skin particles covering my knuckles. The first couple of days after the quarantine, our supervisor insisted we sing happy birthday twice, out loud, whenever we washed our hands. It looked as if we were reciting a prayer to ward off the evil spirit. By the fourth day we had stopped doing it.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/span>Jess comes in through the doors, and walks through the skyward chair legs towards us, in the back. She is middle-aged with smiling eyes; a pleasant co-worker, to be sure, if a somewhat jittery one. Pulling down the bandana covering her mouth, she greets me with the usual \u201cHey buddy!\u201d Not looking up from the sink, I say \u201cWelcome back Jess\u201d to the back of her head. Immediately the inside of my mask is filled with the smell of my own breath. She is packing up her next delivery. Squinting at the delivery tag on the first box, she says \u201cit\u2019s a big one, ain\u2019t it!\u201d I nod my agreement, again, to the back of her head. Having dried my hands with the recycled brown paper, I unconsciously curve my fingers; the skin on the tips of my fingers feels tight, like a rubber glove blown full of air.<\/p>\n

Oh hell, are you kidding me? That\u2019s bull\u2019 man! Yo! John! You seen this?
\nOur manager looks up from his computer screen:
\nWhat\u2019s wrong?<\/p>\n

Look at this address, man, that\u2019s an urgent care unit\u2026 and it\u2019s not even a contactless delivery! I am NOT going in there.<\/p>\n

Let me see\u2026 Oh wow! That\u2019s two, four, six\u2026 fourteen items; it\u2019s probably a donation.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s bull\u2019 man! You better call \u2018em! Call \u2018em an\u2019 tell \u2018em they\u2019re gonna have t\u2019come out and take their food from me \u2018cause I ain\u2019t going in there!<\/p>\n

And get a load of this tip! This is definitely a donation.<\/p>\n

Jess is biting the corner of the nail on the index finger of her left hand. The fear in her voice is echoed in grunts and nods by the other two drivers in the room. They look so primitive; standing there with their hands hidden in their pockets. John hands the tag back to her:<\/span><\/p>\n

Yeah, they can\u2019t expect us to actually go inside the clinic. Read that phone number for me please.<\/p>\n

From behind me someone says \u201cJust dial nine-one-one!\u201d The drivers chuckle eagerly, like cavemen, puffing out their chests, pretending they are not afraid. John hangs up the phone, not having spoken:<\/span><\/p>\n

They\u2019re not answering. I\u2019ll call them again in a bit. You can take a different order if you want, I\u2019ll have Anthony take this one.<\/p>\n

At this, Anthony takes his hands out of his pockets and looks up, smiling crookedly:
\nI\u2019m on break. You want me to clock back in?
\nHold off on that for a moment, we\u2019ll see what happens.
\nOkay, but I\u2019m not going inside that hospital either.<\/p>\n

Dialing again, John looks at him sideways and says nothing. We all watch him listen to the dial tone. Except for Jess; she is, with practiced movements, loading up a different delivery bag. John hangs up again. \u201cNo answer. I\u2019m sure they\u2019ll be careful when taking the order from you. And the tip is pretty generous. Plus, these are healthcare workers, after all. They\u2019re risking their lives for us. So why not just take the delivery?\u201d Anthony smiles that same crooked smile, somehow managing to make it seem apologetic: \u201cYeah, you\u2019re right, but my son has asthma; gotta be careful not to infect him.\u201d<\/p>\n

A customer walks in. When I take his order to him, he is on the phone: \u201c\u2026look, all I know is that I haven\u2019t actually seen anyone infected by it\u2026 hang on\u2026\u201d he holds out the cash. Looking around me I pick up a menu and hold it out for him to put the cash on; he rolls his eyes and wrinkles up the corner of his mouth. Once he has left I wipe down the reception desk with alcohol. Afterwards I rub sanitizer gel onto my hands; it makes the back of my hands scream.<\/p>\n

John hangs up the phone: \u201cThey said they can\u2019t come out.\u201d Turning to Anthony: \u201cSo, you\u2019re not taking the delivery?\u201d He shakes his head from side to side, a glimmer of embarrassment in his eye. John turns to Todd but before he can open his mouth, Todd speaks: \u201cSorry boss.\u201d John crosses his arms and averts his eyes, radiating frustration like a furnace.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll take it,\u201d I say. They turn, wide-eyed; Anthony has even raised his right eyebrow.
\n\u201cBut you\u2019re not a driver,\u201d says John.
\n\u201cYou could put Anthony or Todd in the computer as making the delivery and I\u2019ll go instead.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, that\u2019s an idea but are you absolutely sure you want to take that risk?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a choice between either going out on a delivery and getting that tip or staying in and sweeping the lobby for nothing.\u201d I see it on the faces of the drivers: finally they realize that if I go on the delivery they will be stuck here cleaning the store. I can see cowardice wrestle with greed and sloth. John is studying their faces, too. Finally cowardice wins, as always. Reluctantly, John nods at me to take the delivery. Anthony has already started to sanitize the tables; like a priest, consecrating the temple with odorous balm. It smells like gin.<\/p>\n

A chill wind blows outside. The smell of wet soil and the fractured reflection of streetlights on the asphalt remind me of home. My fingers are folded firmly around the wheel, at nine and three. I am acutely aware of the skin being pulled over my knuckles. Under the irregular halo of traffic lights I try, unsuccessfully, to see if my skin has opened up yet. To my left and right, sit empty parking lots, fringed by closed stores.<\/p>\n

I park right in front of the clinic. Inside, I am greeted by a petite nurse with hair cropped close to her scalp. She comes with her muffled voice; gloved hands reaching out to take the food. She looks happier than I expected; more relaxed. The whole thing lasts less than two minutes and it is practically contactless. As I am getting into the car, a paramedic sitting in the back of his ambulance exhales smoke and nods at me.<\/p>\n

I park the car in front of the house. After opening the door, I await someone to come and spray me with alcohol. To avoid bringing the evil spirits into the hearth, one must be anointed before passing the threshold. I take off my coat and shoes and put them away in the \u201cpurgatory room\u201d where everyone leaves their outside clothes; it is cold, but a peaceful place, nonetheless, as all places of transition should be. I savor the smell of Lysol. I think I\u2019ll stay in here for a bit.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Short Story That’s Bull! By Ali Sahebalzamani The water flows over the skin on the back of my hands; it takes a moment for it to soak through the ashen layer of dead skin particles covering my knuckles. The first couple of days after the quarantine, our supervisor insisted we sing happy birthday twice, out<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"two_page_speed":[],"footnotes":""},"categories":[56,73],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1902","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-articles","category-culture"],"yoast_head":"\nThat\u2019s Bull\u2019! - Peyk Magazine<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"http:\/\/peykmagazine.com\/en\/2020\/05\/05\/thats-bull\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"That\u2019s Bull\u2019! - Peyk Magazine\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Short Story That’s Bull! 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