The Gloves Are On

            The aroma of fresh baked calzone and lasagna draws a crowd on Friday afternoon lunch break at the Tasty Deli on the corner of Main Street.  The line is out the door, hungry stomachs growling awaiting the appetizing delights.  I stand in line, hoping they don’t sell out of the chicken and broccoli calzone before it’s my turn to order.  “Smells so good.” The woman behind me says out loud. 

“Sure does.” Another stranger who just joined the line agrees.

            Silence again as one by one customers approach the deli counter and order their meals.  From death by chocolate cakes, to cannoli’s I can see and smell; all my senses are alert.  I scan the room, checking out people and the men behind the counter serving up the food.  At first glance, nothing seems extraordinary to me, but my eyes pass by again and I’m drawn to the man at the cash register ringing up a sale.  “Italian sub, right?” 

The customer responds.  “Yes, and meatball, large too.”

            He types the amounts onto the register keypad with some difficulty.  I notice his struggle and realize it’s because he has rubber gloves on.  Curious why is he wearing the gloves?  Now, I’m focused on his every action.  The register springs open and he takes a twenty dollar bill offered by the customer and sticks it in the register and then proceeds to count out the change.  No one else seems bothered or even interested in his gloves.  I’m glued to his actions.  “Thank you.  Have a nice day.”  He says to the woman and then walks back behind the meat counter. 

“Who’s next?”  He yells out.

“I think it’s me.” A tall man, elderly, starts to point at the tray of meatballs.  The server picks up a spoon, same gloves on that he had at the register and scoops out several meatballs filling a plastic container.  I’m not too alarmed because he didn’t really touch anything edible with his gloved hands. 

“There you go, sir.  Anything else?  He smiles and waits an answer.

“No, that’s great.  Looks delicious.  Will you ring it up for me?”

“No, I’m back here at the deli for a bit, you can just go to the register and someone will help you.”

“Ok, thank you.”

The man behind the counter then turned to throw away some paper only to find the trash overflowing.  With both gloved hands, he pushed down on the trash forging it in like he was a human trash compactor.  Smiling at the power of his crushing arms, he stepped back to the counter, looked directly at me and asked, “Whose next?”  By now, my stomach didn’t feel so good and the food wasn’t as attractive as it had been when I got in the long line.  I looked to my left and then my right.  “I guess it’s me.” I moved closer to the counter.  Trying to find the courage to say something about the gloves but also feeling self-conscious that I’m more germ phobic than most people.  I started to speak.  “Do you have any chicken, broccoli calzone left?”  Before he could answer, I squirmed, face reddening as I could feel the flush, I asked him.

“Why do you wear the gloves?”

He looked at me with a puzzled expression.  “It’s sanitary, Ma am.  It’s for your safety.”  Should I say anymore?  I couldn’t stand that tense moment.  Does he somehow think the gloves have supernatural powers?  Once you put them on, everything is sterilized.  When I say everything, that includes, money, trash and God knows what else he did with the gloves on.  

My voice lowered and I asked him. “Do you touch other things or just the food with the gloves on?”   Well my red face was pink compared to his in five seconds time. 

“The gloves are on!  Ma am, I’m wearing the gloves like I’m supposed to.  Do you want the calzone or what?” 

Now I was scared.  I nodded yes, even though I didn’t want the calzone anymore.  Not sure if it was because of the gloves or the whole upsetting event, but I took it and went to the register.  “Did you get everything you needed?”  A young man, who appeared new politely asked.

“More, I think. More.”  He smiled as if I’d complimented him and I took the bag and left.  $7.50 I paid for that bag I dumped in the trash can on the way to my car.  Why don’t people get it about the gloves?  You can’t touch anything you want when you have them on.  Are they for the server’s protection or the customer’s protection?  I skipped lunch and went back to work.

            The following Monday, I left work early to take my mother for her doctor’s appointment at the wound center.  She suffered from a serious staph infection, M.R.S.A.  We arrived on time, registered and then sat and waited to see the doctor. 

            A nurse came to the waiting room door.  “Mary, all set.  Follow me.”  I stood and pushed my Mother’s wheelchair down the hall and into the examination room.  The nurse began to remove my mother’s bandaging.  It was wrapped several times because she was leaking puss and fluid regularly from the wound.  Half way there, the woman stopped, turned and grabbed two sanitary gloves and put them on.  I perked up noticing how familiar this was only in a much different setting.  She finished removing the stained infected gauze, wiped the wound with a cleaner and then cultured it.  The pile of infection soaked gauze and wrapping was on the paper that covered the examination table.   The nurse grabbed all the debris and shoved it into the trash can.  She turned and flipped through the pages of my mother’s file.  Now I’m wondering if the file is contaminated.  Before she was finished the doctor came in to take a look.  He wasn’t planning to touch the wound, so he didn’t put his gloves on.  He picked up my mother’s file, licked his thumb and turned the pages scanning the information.  I could barely watch.  Was he infecting himself?  Should I say something?  I remained silent. 

            When the doctor finished he called for the nurse, still wearing her gloves and she went to the counter to get some new bandaging gauze.  I watched her fish through each one, touching the gauze with her gloved protected hands finding the right size.  God help the next wound patient who didn’t have a potentially deadly staph infection when he arrived because the gauze could be contaminated with it now.  She bandaged my Mom, took off the gloves, smiled and wrote some notes in the file.  “You did great Mary.  We’ll have the result of that and your blood work in a couple of days.”

“Thank you.” My Mom smiled.  I used some purell and then started to take my Mom out the door.  As I turned the doorway corner, a man was following another nurse to the exam room.  We recognized each other immediately.  It was the man from the deli.  He looked at me, his eyes roaming back and forth.  “How you doing?” He asked.

I noticed he had huge gauze wrapped around his hand.  “I’m fine, thank you.  My Mom has a staph infection, that’s why we’re here.” 

“Now there’s something to worry about catching.” He smiled, as if that was amusing to him.

I smiled back and told him. “Don’t worry, you’ll be all set.  THE GLOVES ARE ON!”