Magic IRL

The Remin Bottle

"Just a little something to tide you over until we get back to normal," a smiling woman said. She held up a bottle, the camera panning to it. "The Remin Bottle can help—" With an unceremonious zap, the smiling woman and the bottle were gone. Deb put down her remote. Just another day in the end of days.

Deb's apartment was a mess, covered in dirty clothes and food-specked dishes. Her dark hair was likewise unkempt and knotty. Her eyes bore the same glaze as everyone else's. Her mouth was irrelevant, perennially covered by her mask.

Deb's face slipped into a familiar grimace as she slipped out of her building. The apartment was dirty, but at least it was safe.

She slipped on her headphones, blasting her favorite workout track. It had been months since she'd been on a proper run, but the throbbing beats were the best remedy for a restless mind.

She walked the streets with the careful prowl of a predator, but she felt more like prey. As others came near, she slid over to the edge of the sidewalk—pushed by an unseen force. Most others did the same. Nobody smiled. Nobody made eye contact.

The smiling woman from the television stared at Deb from a billboard—her blue eyes crystal clear. She held a Remin Bottle like a prize from a game show. "Don't keep it all bottled in," read the caption. Deb clicked a button on her headphones, and the steady hum of her music intensified.

When Deb arrived at work—the local Garcia's Groceries—she slipped on a second mask. The line outside was already clear around the block, despite the chill in the air. Inside, the building smelled like hand sanitizer and old produce—a nauseating combination. Fluorescent lights irritated Deb's already bloodshot eyes. She took her usual spot behind register four.

"No more toilet paper, no more Remin Bottle," she said, not even ten minutes into the first shift. The phrase was like a religious hymn to her at this point, with how often she repeated it.

"Can you check the back for me please, honey?" an older woman replied, seemingly unaware of the line of people—spaced fix feet apart—stretching back into the store.

"No ma'am," Deb said, her limited reserves of patience quickly depleting. "We restock on Thursdays."

"Don't get an attitude with me, girl," the woman said, wagging her finger.

Deb sighed and continued scanning the woman's items.

A few minutes later, another customer—a man in a red baseball cap—approached the register. He "wore" his mask down low, below his nose. Deb could even see his upper lip poking over the top. She tried not to roll her eyes.

"You know this is all bullshit," the man said, gesturing at nothing in particular.

"Mhmm," Deb said—agreeable but noncommittal.

He looked over his shoulder before leaning around the register's plexiglass shield, defeating its purpose.

"You know, the reason they're making all this stuff up about the virus," he whispered as he slipped of his mask, "is that the—"

"Excuse me sir, you need to get your mask back on," Deb said, backing away from the exposed face.

"Another sheep," the man snarled before reluctantly retreating behind the plexiglass.

Deb did her best to avoid eye contact as she continued scanning his groceries. As she finished, an older woman approached the register.

"What a lunatic that guy was," the woman said, unloading her produce. "Are you OK?

"I'm fine," Deb said, scanning her items.

#

"Any thoughts, guys?" the professor asked.