I, Anonymous

We are very grateful to be some of the few to have a job.

The few of us rehired, while grateful, are basically forced to work, because if we refuse the offer of work, we are ineligible for unemployment. We spend many hours in very close proximity to strangers who are not wearing masks and we are going above and beyond cleaning up after you, making sure that everything is sanitized, changing our gloves and washing our hands every 10 minutes so you have the safest visit possible. Going out to eat is not essential, nor is getting out of the house because you're, "so over this virus thing."

We go home every day scared to death that we might have caught it. Can't even imagine how hospital workers feel. We shower immediately when we get home, sanitize keys, phones, doorknobs, everything to try to stay safe. Not because we are doing anything important/ essential. But because you want to hang out with your friends. Many of whom are not in your bubble, which we know because you greet each other with hugs (wtf?!) while exclaiming, "omg, I haven't seen you in so long!"

No, your family cannot visit for the holidays. We all agreed to these rules to keep everyone safe. You broke them once and were reminded, and then you broke them again. We even gave you a solution (getting tested) which you could have acted on over the weekend or this morning, and you chose not to. Please don't pressure us to endanger our safety because you couldn't wear a mask for "fifteen seconds." Your daughters have been very mature and patient so they can take part in this upcoming gathering. Something you were unable to do. I'm sorry they cannot come over, but you made that choice for all of us when you chose to socialize without your mask.
—Anonymous

New rule: If masks are legally required outdoors, and you choose not to wear one, you must yield when encountering others on the sidewalk.

Because by not wearing a mask, you’re de facto claiming you can maintain 6 feet of distance from anyone else. So... do it.

Step off the sidewalk. Take your 6 feet.

Don’t go mask-less AND make the rest of us responsible for maintaining your personal space bubble.

That’s just an asshole move.
—Anonymous

So it's kinda late and downtown Bainbridge is deserted. I'm taking a little walk down Winslow Way and lost in my thoughts.

I got my mask in my shirt pocket in case I get within 10 feet of someone and have to take precautions to protect them and myself from a nasty ass bug that is killing people. People are turning wearing a mask to protect themselves and others into a political issue. I own a bar that I will likely lose due to this nasty virus.

Dear ENDD and SPD:

Last Saturday I stopped to watch your do-si-do as I was walking home from dinner at Soju Anju, a Korean spot at 12th and Pine that is clinging for dear life after the pandemic, protests, CHOP, and countless clashes outside the East Precinct. You know, the kind of small, independent business that gives Capitol Hill the counterculture vibe you’re exploiting for your anarchist fantasies (ENDD) or don’t give a fuck about in the first place (SPD).

As you tore up the neighborhood for the umpteenth night this year, I shook my head. We already knew that most SPD officers live in the ‘burbs, now it turns out that ENDD’s hardcore contingent does too. Witness the recent charges against Jacob Greenberg of Kirkland and Danielle McMillan, a Woodinville realtor with an Everett address.

So if neither of you live in Seattle, much less in and around the Hill, why don’t you save yourselves the trip and find some suburban parking lot to rumble in? Then the rest of us can go back to recovering from the trauma we’ve experienced this year. We fucking live here and we don’t get to go home to some cul-de-sac after the flashbangs, Molotov cocktails, and bearcats quit for the night. If you are so radicalized that you are actually planning a mass casualty event, as security researchers fear, then do it in your own backyard for once.

You stole a check from my mailbox, washed it, filled it out for $2K, and signed your full name before you unsuccessfully tried to cash it. It took me seconds to find you online. I learned about your girlfriend, your family history, and your brother's suicide. In a fit of rage, I opened a social-media account in your brother's name and stalked you. My intention was to fuck with you and your sense of safety, just as you'd done to me. When you sent me a message asking, "Is it really you?" thinking I was your brother contacting you from the afterlife, I recoiled in horror. And shrunk with guilt. You were so fucked up. I couldn't bear to follow through with my sick plan to torment you. So instead I sent you notes of encouragement, hoping to convince you to change your ways. I saw you struggle with drug addiction, scumbag friends, and bad decisions... and I was rooting for you, hoping you'd find your way in life—and you did. Congrats on staying out of prison, getting clean, and starting a family. I haven't checked in on you for some time, but I hope you're doing well.

To all my coworkers: Please stop giving such incredibly specific reasons for why you will be working from home today. I don't care if you have to go to the doctor for your gout or the particulars of your symptoms. I don't need to know that your cat pooped blood. Or that your dog encountered a hostile person at the grocery store and now needs antidepressants. Keep it to yourself that your poly partner poisoned you with undercooked chicken. You don't need to mention the word diarrhea. Just say in the message that you have an appointment or you're sick! We don't all need to hear about your custody trial with your ex-wife who you hate more than anything in an all staff e-mail!! Please please please, for the love of god, stop!!!!

I have heard you openly complain about staff payroll being too high. I have listened to you claim that finances are tight right now because of our planned expansion. I have seen you send employees home early on a slow day because you "can't justify the expense." I have watched you belittle and demean the value of my overqualified and incredibly talented colleagues because you think they could be "doing more." I have accepted a salary based on an agreed-upon schedule, only to be greeted with 55 to 60 hour workweeks that break down to a value of less than $15 per hour. I have coped with receiving only six days of PTO per year (including sick days), even if it has affected my relationships. I have empathized with my coworkers about our love for what we do, our depth of experience, and how odd it is that we still can't afford health insurance or rent. So when you paraded around the building the other day in your brand-new $800 Balenciaga sneakers, I decided to start looking for a new job.

Fuck you, parking enforcement officer, who I won't call out by name but who I and the rest of the neighborhood know very well. Fuck you for giving me a parking ticket outside of the coffee shop when I SAW YOU in the act and told you I'd move my car immediately. Fuck you for then ticketing me again a few days later for being "within 15 feet of a fire hydrant"—in a parking spot on this street that's almost always occupied and does not in fact block the fire hydrant, and in which I'd never been ticketed previously. A few conversations around the neighborhood reveal that you're pretty infamous for being a douchebag. A bit of googling shows that your surname is already dirty. Is that why you're stuck as a grumpy parking enforcement officer? Shame on you, man. You're a joke.

I said no gifts. I meant it, too. You knew that I Marie Kondo'd my apartment twice. I gave you the book to read before that Netflix show got popular. But you insisted. You made me open up gift after gift of trinkets and items I might use but probably won't. With each new gift, I cringed, knowing it would eventually find its way to the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. You made me perform for you with those old rehearsed lines: "Oh how sweet!" "This is so thoughtful!" When I opened a pair of pants, you even had me go into the bathroom to try them on. "Let's see!" you urged. I came back with the new pants on, tags dangling, and you all looked at me and I wanted to disappear forever. I told you I don't want any gifts, so why do you all keep giving them? Are they for me or for you?

If you must bring your sick children out of the house, at least refrain from bringing them to places where people are eating or are planning to eat, like a restaurant or the grocery store. I am specifically talking to you, smug yuppie couple whose toddler was coughing and sneezing everywhere at the burrito joint. You stupid, awful Karen mom, you even held your kid over the goddamn plastic guard where the food gets prepared, so the kid could drip his disgusting snot germs all over the place. WTF is wrong with you people? Show a little respect toward and care for your fellow humans. Also, over-the-counter medicine does wonders, as does a goddamn tissue.

YOU: Cute woman with a cute dog. You're usually walking around my neighborhood, and I sometimes see you at the dog park. We smile, and I can sort of feel a connection when we talk. I was kind of hoping for a chance, but...

ME: This afternoon while walking my dog, I thought nobody was behind me as I casually started farting for each step I took (about five steps). The farts were loud and gross—and when I looked behind me, the horror in your eyes said it all. I sheepishly waved and then quickly crossed the street and boogied up a side street. If I ever had a chance, it's over now. :(

Hey, asshole car drivers who blow through crosswalks without stopping: PEDESTRIANS HAVE THE RIGHT-OF-WAY. If you were paying attention—as you should be—to the neon yellow sign hanging over this slice of street that reads "Crosswalk" and the neon pedestrian crossing signs on either side (sometimes paired with blinking lights), you'd see me standing there, waiting patiently, staring directly at you, trying to meet your eye, because sometimes that's the only way to get you to STOP. I am supposed to be here. I have a flag in my hand, I'm waving it around so that you can see me better, and still you speed by in 4,000 pounds of steel. It might be annoying to have to wait, but you'll avoid committing vehicular homicide, and I don't want to die that way. Also, to the jerk who yelled at me when I was done crossing, because you had to stop? Fuck. You. Very. Much.

For a few sweet months, I rode your bus to Belltown on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. The sight of your sly smile when I climbed aboard and you asked me how my day was, your attempted restraint in our brief chats, the lingering glow that carried me through the rest of the week until I saw you again... these were the highlights of my year. Outside of those precious 20 minutes each week, you had a life and a family and all the responsibilities of the world on your shoulders. After you told me you were moving away, I wrote you a note—a forlorn goodbye—and watched as the calendar ticked down to your last day. I couldn't bring myself to give you the letter. And when I got off the bus that last day, I knew I'd never see you again. My heart weighs heavy without you.

I saw you, middle-aged lady, at Dress for Success Seattle, as you arrived late to the queue and pushed past an entire room of women who were waiting to get in. We all saw you, because when you were told there was a line, you replied to the person who pointed this out: "Chill out—I have a VIP ticket," and then proceeded to saunter up to the front of the line, where you remained for the next 15 minutes (until the doors opened) without a care in the world, waiting to be let in first. Really? Why would you show your ass like that at a charity event? Who the fuck do you think you are? All of the women you cut in front of had that same VIP ticket, you fucking entitled piece of work. If I wasn't such a class act, I would have snatched you up by your leopard-print scarf and put you in a time-out.

We've been friends for a long time. And, sure, you partied a little hard—not Seattle hard, but kid-who-moved-here-from-Cali-in-the-aughts hard. Now you're sober, and I'm happy for you. But to be real, dude, sober you sucks. All you do is talk about being sober and "posi" while shit-talking the rest of your non-sober social circle. I've heard the saying that there's nothing worse than a sober drunk—and, fuck, does it apply to you. I'm sorry you couldn't handle your shit, but it doesn't mean other people can't. I respect your wishes, and I don't smoke weed or drink before we hang out. I do my best to be supportive, but all you fucking talk about is being sober and working out and being an "Ironhead," because all of a sudden you're into motorcycles? You literally work out twice a day every day and obsessively tinker on your bike. I feel like you've traded one addiction for another. And that's fine by me, but could you shut the fuck up about it already?