Checkout Girl with the Flu

THE CHECKOUT GIRL WITH THE FLU

A story by

Dennis O'Rourke

      I was setting up the equipment in a club sometime ago, somewhere in New England, on a rainy, miserable Thursday afternoon. The music room was on the second floor of the building and was deserted at this hour, except for a waitress cleaning and readying the bar for the night. I was in the middle of a bad cold. She heard me coughing, sneezing, and grumbling, and she came over with a pot of hot tea, and urged me to sit down and take a breather. She waved off my warnings of possible contagion and sat down with me for a chat and a cup. It was of interest to her to know how entertainers were able to ignore the occasional malady, get on stage, and do the job. Waiting tables and slinging drinks, as she put it, was hard enough when she didn’t feel particularly perky. But at least she didn't have to stand in front of an audience and entertain.
     Indeed.
     “Well,” I told her, “in general, some folks, myself included, go to great lengths to avoid colds and flu. We religiously adhere to the standard, recommended rules of caution and prevention—we get plenty of sleep, exercise, eat fresh fruits and vegetables, and quaff bottles of water and citrus juices by the case. We double or triple our intake of Vitamin C. We wash our hands a dozen times a day, and we take care not to bring those hands, as scrubbed and sterile as they may be, anywhere near our mouths or noses. If the virus making the rounds is airborne, we do our best not to be too long in close proximity of those unforgivably careless about all of the above, and consequently allow themselves to ‘come down with something.’ We’ll meet this person in the course of a day, inquire politely as to their well being, and when told, ‘Oh, God, I’ve caught this awful cold,’ we will immediately back away, throw our hands up defensively, and say, ‘Well, don’t give it to me,’ as if the sufferer has some mystical power over the bug and can rein it in or cut it loose at will.”
     The waitress enjoyed this little recitation. I expanded my discourse.
     “When an afflicted person visits my home without first informing me of their cloak of pestilence, I will do my best to cut their visit short, and after they are gone, I will bombard the air and anything they’ve touched with clouds of Lysol spray, paying particular attention to the doorknob.”
     “Lysol?” She raised an eyebrow.
     “Indispensable,” I said.
     I went on to assure her that for an entertainer, getting on stage to do a show while doing battle with a cold or flu can be a Herculean endeavor of will and stamina. I hate it. A hangover can be treated with the judicial application of the hair of the dog. But a cold? The flu? I want to be at home in my bed, sipping herbal teas, catching up on my reading, and being ministered to by a loved one. The last place I want to be with my fever, stuffy nose, headache, and chills is in a smoky, noisy bar filled with healthy, robust revelers pounding on the tables and pouring gallons of Guinness down their gullets. I begrudge them their health and happiness. I sadly recall when I, too, had this joy in my heart and booze in my blood, and I begin to fear that this state of bliss will never again be mine. I want to tell them how sick I am, but I know I cannot. They don’t want to hear it, and they don’t care. I want them to understand just how mighty an effort it’s going to be for me to get through the next four hours. This whine will not go down well with them or the club owner—especially the club owner. If he does not see a fresh shotgun wound anywhere on my body, he is unsympathetic.
     When I privately confess my miserable condition to a fan or friend at the bar, looking for sympathy or commiseration, my heart will sink when they back up and say, “Well, don’t give it to me.” My mood darkens and sours even more. Then it’s nine o’clock, and the stage beckons. I approach it as if it was a guillotine. Once up there, my fevered mind turns the happy faces at the foot of the stage to a crowd of toothless, drunken, French harpies holding up straw baskets to catch my head.
     “Poor dear,” she said. “But that’s some imagination you’ve got.”
     For the entertainer, the singer, there is also the danger of an accompanying sore throat. How are you going to get past that? Robbie O’Connell once imparted a bit of advice to me during a discussion about the health perils of the road. You can sing and get through the night with a sore throat if, an hour before the show, you warm up the vocal chords with scales. Start low and soft and take your time. Massage the throat lightly with forefinger and thumb. Press a warm, wet towel over the affected area. To these perfectly sound suggestions I added one of my own—sing the songs in the first set in a lower key. Work your way up the ladder slowly.
     “Sounds reasonable,” she said.
“     Robbie had added another tip,” I told her. “Be careful what cold remedies you choose. Don’t mix them. Forgetting this warning, I once medicated myself on stage with antihistamines, hot tea and lemon, and several belts of cognac. All of these contrived to make me feel like a new man. Pseudophedrine is like speed to me. I sailed still higher on the wings of Remy Marten, and in my drug-induced euphoria, I belted out the songs. In truth, I had dried up my throat and sinuses and then shredded my vocal chords by singing with the wild abandon of an eighteen-year-old garage rocker.
     “I rose the next morning with the expected hangover, but when I tried to speak, nothing—absolutely nothing—came out. After several attempts, a single syllable emerged, or rather, cracked itself loose from the baked, desert driveway that was once my throat. It began in the key of A and flew up into a high C without any conscious effort from me. When I was finally able to cause some words to emerge, albeit in this uncontrollable, croaking cackle, I had to call and cancel a well paying gig that night—a frat party in Atlanta. Any attempt to sing would have brought serious, permanent injury to my vocal chords. I had to remain quiet for forty-eight hours.”
     “How much did you lose out on?”
     “Four hundred bucks,” I said.
     She flinched.
     “There’s the rub,” I said.
     I have had to take the stage in less-than-ideal physical condition on countless occasions. Colds and flu be damned. I’ll suck lozenges and gargle warm salt water between sets to ward off laryngitis. I will swill Vicks or Benadryl and pack my body with Ibuprofen. And why?
     “The show must go on,”my waitress said dramatically.
     “Well, there is that, certainly. An audience has congregated to hear you perform. They may be your friends and fans. They want your music and your wit. They want to laugh, to have a good time. Sing, Dennis!” (I waited for her to acknowledge the Jack Benny-Dennis Day reference. Now there’s a great metaphor for the relationship between a club owner and a performer! But she was too young.)
     “Yes, the show must go on, and while I stand ready to pay homage to that tradition, I have to admit that my foremost reason for performing wounded is somewhat less noble. This is not an assured nine to five, forty-hour a week job. You take work where and when you can get it. There are no health benefits, and certainly no paid sick days. A club owner is not going to pay you for lying in a sick bed while paying another entertainer to take your place onstage. He who works gets paid.”
     My waitress nodded in agreement. In that regard, our jobs were exactly the same.
     Given all this, it is of paramount importance for a singer to stay healthy. Vigilance is required. Beware the occasion of sin, as the nun once admonished. To that, I add, “Beware also the lair of the virus, which is the infected person, the air surrounding that person, and the things they touch.”
     She wanted an example, and I gave her one. “One conduit I long-suspected has been used by these pernicious, microscopic beasties to transfer themselves from one host to another is the supermarket checkout girl, who has a nasty cold or flu. She is going to be putting her diseased paws on every single item you have purchased and are about to bring into your home. If you allow this to happen, your only recourse is to submerge all the vegetables and fruits in water, wash them, and layer a coat of Lysol on all the canned goods before putting them away.”
     “Again with the Lysol? You spray Lysol on your groceries?” she said.
     I nodded solemnly. Her eyes narrowed.
     “But this is time consuming and not always effective. You must go back to the beginning and figure out a way to avoid the ailing checkout girl altogether.”
     “I’m all ears,” she said.
     “I will tell you how I handle this potentially ruinous encounter, and I have a feeling that if he was still alive, this would carry the Howard Hughes stamp of approval. When you have completed your shopping in the cold and flu season, park yourself and your cart at the rear of the longest line you can find. This will give you ample opportunity to observe the checkout girl. Watch her carefully for any symptoms—coughing, sniffling, and sneezing or blowing her nose. Noting any of these, you must immediately walk briskly to the next longest line. Begin your observations anew.”
     “Hadn’t thought of that,” she said.
     “Keep in mind however, that the infectious checkout girl may be taking drugs that will prevent the symptoms from being apparent. You must be prepared for this possibility, and I recommend staying alert. Keep your ears open for any pleasantries exchanged between the customer and the checkout girl. Most customers will ask, ‘How ya doing today?’ Now, I have never met a person, checkout girls included, with a cold or flu, who will not immediately lay the ailment out for you in all its aching, feverish, phlegmy detail. If the checkout girl’s reply is inaudible, strain to catch what the customer is saying. No person without a cold can resist consoling another who has. If you hear the customer offering the girl his own unfailing, miracle cure for colds, depart the line, pronto.”
     She nodded, impressed.
     “But let us say the worst has happened. You’ve been fooled completely. You think your girl healthy until she has her hands on your broccoli, and then she suddenly rears her head back and unleashes a tremendous, watery sneeze, spraying spittle in all directions. As she wipes her nose with her sleeve and reaches for your carrots, you find yourself trembling with hope and prayer as you ask, ‘Oh, dear. Bad allergies?’ You will be horrified when you hear, ‘I wish. No, I’ve got this flu that’s going around. I was up all night throwing up, and I’ve had diarrhea all morning.’”
     “I know that girl,” my waitress hollered. “What do you do then?”
     “Back up, take a deep breath and keep your wits about you. This is one of those emergencies that cell phones were made to handle. If you are a woman, reach into your purse and press the cell phone so it rings. If you are a man and carry it hooked to your belt, reach down and surreptitiously do the same. Look around you apologetically, put the phone to your ear, say, “Hello,” and listen for a few seconds. Allow your face to gradually take on a look of deep concern while gazing at the folks in line behind you. Hold your hand up for silence. Then say in a loud voice, ‘Yes, Mr. President. Yes, sir. I understand completely.’ Wait a few beats, then say, “Yes, sir, I’ll inform the secretary immediately, and I’ll catch the next plane.’
     “Mumble a distracted apology to the checkout girl, leave the contaminated groceries where they lie, and flee the store.”
     My waitress laughed and shook her head. “Very interesting,” she said. She laughed, stood up, and pointed a finger. “You know,” she continued, “I’ve learned over the years that you crowd, you pub entertainers, are a very strange bunch altogether.”
     She cleaned up our cups, went behind the bar, and began a loud rummage through the cabinets. I finished setting up. Twenty minutes later, I was on my way out the door, headed for the hotel to change. The audience would be here in a few short hours. I turned to wave goodbye, and found my waitress slowly walking around the room, winding her way through the tables. She held a can of Lysol high over her head, laying down a thick spray. She got up on the stage and turned to face me through the settling mist, aiming the can in my direction.
     “You’ve a cold,” she said with a big grin. “I have to think of myself and my customers. I don’t want any of us exposed to your pernicious, microscopic beasties.”
     I was not the least offended. As a matter of fact, I gave her a thumbs up. Smart girl.

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