Gerry’s phone had lost many of its features, most important  the ‘on’ switch.  He had cleverly figured a way to outsmart it , but it was a rigmarole  and incredibly frustrating.     

The phone was essential.  We were all in lockdown.  Phone calls to customer service assured us we could get help at the Rogers Store on Bank St.  We called ahead.         

It was late afternoon, late March, late rain.  We found a parking spot just outside the store front.  I waited in the car behind the wheel.  Parking had restrictions after 3 pm.  Gerry pushed the bell button.  An iron grate filled the door frame.  I watched from the car.          

Three young people stood leaning on an inner pedestal-like desk with contraptions hooked up and cords falling at its sides.  Two women and a man. All remarkably dressed in colourful trendy clothing, hair coiffed and button shirts.  They stood about eight feet from the door.            

Gerry wasn’t allowed into the store.  He could not hand the phone through the grate as they were not allowed to touch the devices.  Could they talk him through it?  Not really , as they needed to see the problem.  Obviously they weren’t going to come closer or make an effort.  I could hear Gerry’s frustration through his mask , muffled but audible.  The grate bore the significance  to the moment .  A young couple had come up behind Gerry and were waiting for their kick at the can.               

I turned to watch a man across the street.  He was clean cut, well built and dressed in sports gear.  He carried a black gear bag.  He crossed the street in front of the car, stooped and cupped his hand into the giant puddle left by the late rain.  Took a drink and repeated the action, stood for a moment thinking and disappeared down the street.                 

Gerry opened the car door and climbed in.  “Well that was a son of a bitch, imagine that ! “