Bountyless

8:43 AM -- I emerge from my office to pour my third cup of black coffee. The days are becoming longer. And my ability to nap is growing weaker. So I caffeinate and write. Or attempt to write. All is foggy. Perhaps due to my steadily growing ingestion of Petra Cannabis Infused Mints. But I am clearheaded enough to hear my wife say, "we're down to our last roll of paper towels."

Of course we are, because instead of offering real aid to hurricane stricken Puerto Ricans, Captain Ouchie Foot lobbed all our paper towels at people who lost their homes, their jobs and their future. Fucking brilliant.

8:59 AM -- I lube up my hands with Purell then don the protective latex gloves which are two sizes too small for my fat clubby hands. I strap on my N95 mask, that I have been using for more than a week. And I put on my light down windbreaker. It is easier to wipe the windbreaker of the deadly Covid 19 virus than it is to wipe my fleece jacket.

9:14 AM -- My dog Lucy and I arrive at the Shell Service Station across the street from Sony Pictures. The doors have been locked and it appears they are only selling goods through the pass through window. With each passing day it feels we are closer and closer to Mad Max. Just when I was getting used to Idiocracy.

The clerk shouts into the dirty plexiglass, "we have no Paper Towels. you can take some of the brown folded towels by the pumps." Thanks, but no thanks.

9:27 AM -- I walk towards the bodega on Culver and Keystone. This is not a store I usually shop as it the entire cashier station is buffeted by bulletproof glass. And the prices are outrageous. The Eastern European owner has paper towels! But he is only selling two rolls at a time. And as might be expected he doesn't accept Apple Pay.

"Snapple Way? No, cash or credit card. No Snapple Way."

9:41 AM  -- I swing by the 7-11 at Culver and Overland. The doors are locked but only temporarily as the clerk had to use the bathroom. From the emerging odor, I get the feeling he was in there a long time.  He has no paper towels. He does however have shelves full of dashboard clip on pine tree air freshener.

10:01 AM -- I arrive back home with Lucy, who like the 7-11 attendant is feeling considerably lighter. I find my wallet, check the storage of cash and dare to fight off the 72 degree weather and partly sunny skies.

I'm back at the bodega. Thankfully, the paper towels are still there. I grab my limited allotment and head to the heavily-barricaded front of the store. The man with the Armenian accent tells me, "two rolls of Paper Towels, five dollars."

Is he price gouging? Of course he is. Am I going to argue with him? Absolutely not.

"Let me also get that big bottle of Jack Daniels. Thanks."