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Cancel Culture is Democracy (and no one said Democracy is perfect)

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*I don’t claim to be a political scientist or a philosopher; just a lefty sharing her thoughts. 

To many on the left and right, Cancel culture is a modern plague. At its worst, it is public beheading, figurative burning at the stake driven by brutish groupthink. It hunts mercilessly for momentary (and human) lapses in judgment, and anyone who exists or speaks publicly, including academic lecturers, can fall victim.

Damaging as this tendency is to those who have a platform, doesn’t it reflect the natural order in a true democracy though?

What Cancel culture boils down to is public opinion. Being hated by peers is not a new phenomenon. Society has always had its outsiders, ostracized for handicaps, physical appearances, sexual proclivities, and more. Traditionally, common people have been influenced from the top down: first by religion, then government, then corporations, then mass media. We’ve been trained, typically by way of fear, on what is acceptable and non acceptable. The emergence of the Internet, however, has led to the democratization of influence. Information is no longer distributed in a one way broadcast. While in the past, we had a few official sources for news and guidance, and we digested information in the isolation of nuclear families, now, social media’s comments sections have created a space for discourse and dissent. What we’ve learned is: what is official is not always what is true; and those in power can be disempowered. 

My stance is not that Cancel culture is always correct or that it is morally right. Misinformation on all levels, from televised propaganda to internet trolls, is an endless peril, and the democratization of influence is not guaranteed to bring us closer to truth. Greg Lukianoff, civil rights lawyer and author of The Canceling of the American Mind, advocates that Cancel culture is an endangerment to free speech. He hones in on doxing as a method to silence individuals whose views dissent from public opinion. What he warns against is the tyranny of the majority, the idea that mob mentality can destroy a minority of nonconformist voices. During his interview on Lex Fridman’s podcast, Lukianoff shares examples of speakers who have been disinvited to college campuses, and university faculty members who have lost their jobs. 

While targeted campaigns to take down an individual’s career are unkind, I don’t see Cancel culture’s doxing as worse than smear campaigns operated by politicians and lobbyists. One distinction I believe Lukianoff fails to emphasize is that “Canceling” must come from the unranked masses–here is where it differs from traditional censorship. If an individual, whether a professor, news anchor, or actress, is fired due to falling out of favor with its organization’s leaders or investors because of their views, I see this as traditional censorship. “Canceling,” on the other hand, is when an individual loses popular appeal and is thereby fired due to an inability to satisfy audiences or the people they are meant to serve. You get censored by the few and mighty, but you get canceled by the common masses.

Of course it’s much easier to champion Cancel culture when it’s a viral video divulging a clearly racist former presidential adviser–a man not apt to hold any position of power. And it is more difficult to justify when it doxes a budding comedian for a tweet written ten years ago. Is it the worst thing to hold public figures to higher standards though? Not everyone deserves a microphone. Celebrities and politicians have influence so long as the People provide it–we choose to pay attention, and we can withdraw our attention at any time. It’s rather indulgent to ramble on a public platform without putting an ounce of thought into how words may be received. One could argue that Cancel culture inspires generally better behavior, and it reminds powerful figures of their duty to serve and entertain.

I acknowledge I have the commoner’s bias. Being of the proletariat, I am the one leaving the review, signing the petition, joining the boycott. As an individual, I lack influence, but my power is derived from joining the masses, and I’ll likely never taste the other side of it. Greg Lukianoff, on the other hand, had nearly ended his own life because of the despair brought on by Cancel culture’s bullying. Most of us lefties and progressives, I believe, have the goal of a kinder society in mind, and so we must realize the potential damages of our hostility. There’s a clear line between dissent and cruelty, and we need to employ good judgment on heeding it. 

Botulinum Toxin

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I got botox for the first time today. A light dose of 12 units. To some, it’s unpalatable to alter your face and defy the nature of aging ever, let alone starting at 30 years old. To others, I’m late to the game, as “botox is preventative.” The practice of cosmetic injections might be utterly mundane in reality, but to me, I crossed a bridge today as profound as any coming of age; like driving alone for the first time, or giving my first handjob. 

As I checked into the facility, filling out what seemed like an endless queue of release forms on an iPad, I listened to the receptionists and my nurse discuss best restaurants in the area. 

“I loved Fig and Olive.”

“It was amazing. I liked it much more than Catch.”

“The Catch in New York is better.”

“Everything in New York is better.” 

“It says I have to consent to the use of my photographs for learning purposes and marketing,” I interrupt. “It won’t let me submit without checking the box.” 

They assure me photos will be for my clinical records, and not for Instagram. The screen says something different, but I don’t have time to worry about it. I check the box and move on. 

In the consultation room, my nurse, Raffi, a 40 or 50 something year old married man, introduces himself and spells out his Instagram handle. He then asks, “So, tell me what’s bothering you. What’s been eating away at you that you want to correct?” 

I replied I was seeking preventative care, before any wrinkles form too deeply. “I turned 30 a few months ago, and a lot of my friends have already started botox,” I say, maybe justifying to myself why I’m there. “There is this one line between my eyebrows, though…”

 “I see it,” he says immediately. 

My nurse is a friendly guy, but it’s obvious he feeds off self-doubt, starting with “tell me what you hate about yourself” and continuing to jump on confirmation of any insecurity. This is how he makes his money though, so I understand the hustle. Like a new paint job, he needs to convince me that I need it. What an industry. 

Fortunately, I’m not 18 or even 25. At 30, I am fully aware of my own skin, being in it, and where it stands. In other words, I’m comfortable with myself. I accepted years ago I will never be the most beautiful woman in the world, and I find no use in torturing myself to dissect every imperfection in an effort to achieve that. I like what I like about myself, and that’s more than enough. 

He tells me he can start with 26 units across my forehead and eyes. It’s a standard dose, but it feels like a lot for my first time. I ask about my smile lines, “Do I need anything here?” He explains that would take fillers rather than botox. 

“Botox would numb the muscles and prevent you from smiling.”

“That’s ok, no fillers. Just botox for now.” I ask him for the lowest dose, so I can work my way up later if needed. 

He warns, “I don’t know that you’ll be happy with the results.” It might not be as strong or last as long as I would like. 

“I’ll notice something, though. Right?”

“Oh, definitely.” 

It’s already 1:30 pm, and I have lunch plans with a friend. Today was meant to be a consultation, but my nurse tells me he can squeeze me in as his last appointment. I’m going out of state to visit my parents for the holidays next week, so I figure I might as well get it done now. 

“Three minutes, right?”

“It will be very quick. You have a small forehead, so this will be easy.” 

Small forehead? I think. Is that a good or bad thing? 

He instructs me to furrow my brow as he snaps a photo. Then he asks me to raise my brows for another photo. He wipes my forehead with something that numbs it. 

“Where are you having lunch?”

“This place called Ardor.”

“That’s the restaurant in the hotel, right?”

“Yeah exactly.”

I close my eyes and feel the thinnest needle prick one side of my forehead. It continues all the way across, 5 little doses of venom entering my face. He goes to the spot between my eyebrows, and I log a mental check–Great, now that’s taken care of. As he goes in for the last injection, I feel his balls dangle on my crossed legs. It’s definitely weird, but was it intentional? The muddled waters of sexual harassment and abuse, it’s ridiculous how easy it is to come by. At any rate, the botox treatment really does take three minutes or less. 

I open my eyes, and he brings a mirror to my face. I am horrified to see 5 or 6 bulging lumps leaking blood on my forehead. He wipes the blood. “You’re not supposed to rub these areas, but if you need to dab the blood later, you can.”

“How long do these bumps last?” I ask, panicked. 

“10 minutes,” he says. 

We walk back to the lobby. He tells me I’ll enjoy Ardor and recommends I go to the hotel’s rooftop. He and his wife were there a couple months ago after dinner at Madeo. “It’s just on Sunset,” he says, “Once you’re on Melrose, it’s a right on La Cienega.” 

I think to myself, And so, this is Los Angeles. Cosmetic injections just so we can look good at brunch. This middle-aged nurse who administers poison for vanity purposes (and who grazed his penis against me) is now dishing about sceney restaurants like we’re 14 year old girls. Clearly there are far more important things in this world, but if you can’t find the slightest fraction of entertainment in such potent vapidness, never move to LA.

When I got in my car, the first thing I did was look in the mirror. The bumps were gone. I texted two of my friends immediately after treatment and planned on talking about it during lunch. One person I didn’t text was my boyfriend. I knew his opinions of botox and didn’t want to freak him out. I’d tell him at home. 

There are many arguments that can be made against botox or other cosmetic treatments, namely that it stems from deep insecurity or dysmorphia, a desperate attempt to deny natural processes in order to appease societal standards of beauty. I haven’t had those feelings. I just feel awesome right now, as if I, along with other women, are defying nature for as long as we can. Giving it the old college try.  

Breaking Up with Certified Lover Boy🤰🏻

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Dear Drake, 

You were always the older guy I had a crush on. Older, not by a generation, but older like, you could’ve been my brother’s friend. Older in the sense that when you were a teen, I was a kid, and I was nowhere near consideration for you, but I could entertain fantasies of having you as my boyfriend. 

I spent my college years, my early 20s, and even my mid 20s listening to your advice. I was a “Drake girl,” like many other girls. You spoke to my alter ego. I imagined I was that girl: beautiful but mistreated; smart, strong, sexy, who dealt with bullshit from boys who were shallow, boys who were clowns. We were “good girls.” “Good” as in kind, but also, “good” as in quality. Your tracks were our anthems. We sang them, believing in our own confidence. We were girls who challenged, girls who pushed back, girls you’d get emotionally involved with and write songs about. We were girls looking for love–the real thing, though. 

You taught me other lessons, too. It wasn’t all wishes for fairytale romance. From your words, I learned loyalty and friendship. You encouraged me to value something invisible called integrity. And even when I had nothing else–when I was young, lost, broke, single, working a shit job–I could still feel superior, because I had my own version of principles. That’s what you evoked, for all of us. You talked about holding loved ones close, protecting your inner circle, guarding your soul, and those became our mantras. You taught confidence and humility at once. I learned to be humble, enough to see myself objectively, enough to know what others may like or dislike. And confident enough to be indifferent to their opinions. You demonstrated class. You never gave into pettiness. Nastiness, in intention and action, was something that rolled off you and resided at your feet. 

Some people may have been tired of your wins, but you continued to execute with skill, with resonance. 

You were popular, you were mainstream, but who cares? You were likeable.

I spent many lonely drives nodding pensively to your words. Imagining, like you, that my success would one day be the greatest revenge toward anything that made me feel less about myself. I spent many joyful nights with girl friends and liquor, singing along to you, as we dressed ourselves up, secretly in hopes that a stranger would approach us the way you do in your songs. We imagined someone sexy, someone funny, someone assertive, but non-intimidating. Someone who would make love in a way that encouraged us to use our own bodies. Someone who’d go on to write poetry about us. About our appeal, about our desires, about our growing attachment, and ultimately about our growth itself. We would grow to realize self worth, and we would grow tired. Tired of these situations, of loves that weren’t love, of boys who were like you. 

You sing about it all the time. And like a prophecy, you’ve become the story that you tell. You are a Certified Lover Boy, and the generation that grew up with you, we are women now. We have built our lives, full of depth and abundance. And you appear to have stopped growing. What lessons have you learned this last year? The sound of your words have lost their charm. You’re telling old stories, laughing at old jokes, and introducing them as new. You feel recycled. And it’s not me, but you who has changed, because you choose to remain the same. I haven’t stopped loving what you once were. I am still transported by Views, Scorpion, More Life. I still get shudders when I blast Legend while pulling onto the highway. But you, your present self, feels soulless. You’re stuck in immaturity, and you embrace it. Like Peter Pan, but if Peter Pan’s motivation were to fuck. 

You look up to men who’ve held their sexual urges above all else. Men who’ve abused women and children because of tainted desires. Is that the legacy you want?

No, you’re not like them. You are still Drake. 

You’re still fun. I will still hear CLB on the radio, at festivals and events, and in my friends’ apartments. And when I do, I’ll sing along, bop my head, sway side to side, and clink drinks. I will still follow you, keep tabs on what you’re up to, and hope you’re doing well. But I will not help but think that I’ve outgrown you. 

Take care.

SOMETHING 2020

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Mai lies on her couch, one leg draped over the backrest. She’s four minutes into an IGTV she wish she hadn’t started. Of course, she keeps watching though.

A pretty blond wearing a sports bra is in tears. Eyes puffed, she’s got that intentionally wrecked, no-makeup look going. “I’ve been crying for the past three days. I’ve just felt so hopeless about everything that’s going on in our country.” The Internet model buries herself in her hands, then emerges with a trite look of determination. “But, I will pledge to do better. I’ve been reading and listening. I even watched Oprah’s The Color Purple, and I read a poem by Maya Angelou called ‘I know why the jailbirds sing.'”

Mai winces at the poem title’s butchering, but she can’t turn away. Plus, she’s got nothing better to do than see where this is going. It’s kinda crazy this chick went high school with her.

The come-to-Jesus moment with over 600k views and likes continues, “Though I will never understand what it’s like to be hated because of how I look, I promise to use my privilege to help those who cannot speak for themselves.” She holds her hand to her heart. “As a valued white woman, I will use my voice to help my African American sisters and brothers who deserve so much better! To all my African American viewers”–like, no one? Mai thinks–“I am someone who believes you matter.”

Suddenly, there’s thunderous knocking at Mai’s door. “Ahh!” she screams. The knocking continues, but she’s hesitant to get it. It’s a pandemic, after all. She can’t just be inhaling anyone’s droplets. “Who is it?” she asks.

“The hell do you think it is?” Retorts a cheeky and familiar voice. “Open up, girl. I know you’re not doing anything better than watching reruns of Rupaul.”

Mai opens the door for Devon, a skinny, bronze-toned Black kid with ornate tattoos, bleach blond hair, and an overall manicured look. He’s holding a cardboard sign that reads “Black Trans Lives Matter.”

“What’s up?”

“What’s up is I was just at the ABLM protest.” He smiles proudly, showing off the dimples in his babyface.

“I saw on your stories. How was it?” Mai, whose small frame is buried under a large tee and running shorts, sits back on the couch. Devon takes off his shoes to come in.

“It was… amazing. Mai, the energy is unreal. It feels like something deep is shifting. Like, everyone’s on the same page this time.”

“For sure. Wish I could’ve been there.”

“Why weren’t you?”

“I have exercise induced asthma, Devon. I’m high risk, duh?”

“That hasn’t stopped you from having me, Tracy, Keisha, and Padma over all the time, sharing drinks and bongs.”

“That’s different. I know you all.”

“Exactly, so you know we haven’t really been the best at social distancing. Especially Tracy, she’s out there taking like three Tinder walks a week.”

“Just because I don’t feel like being surrounded by crowds doesn’t mean anything. I signed petitions, sent emails, donated to GoFundMes and Facebook charities,” she lists. “And you know I’m poor, bitch, so don’t start with me.”

Devon plops down next to her. “Nah, Mai, you’re definitely down for the cause. It’s not that.” He looks at her, making sure she’s listening. “I just think you need to get out more, in general.” His eyes narrow with concern. “You basically haven’t done much of anything since this quarantine started.”

Mai shoots daggers. “…It’s a fucking quarantine?”

Devon holds up his hands. “Don’t get irritated. I’m just checking in with little Ponyo is all.” He pokes her side.

“Oh my god, don’t.” Mai hugs a pillow. “I’ve gained like three pounds.”

Devon raises his brows. “More like six,” he says under his breath.

“What? Shut up!” Mai changes topics. “What’s it like outside? Was there tear gas and shit?”

“Nah, nah. This was chill. It was a big, peaceful, spirited march.”

Mai ponders something, then turns to her friend. “I’m proud of you, you know,” she says admiringly. “You’re actually doing it, taking action.” She smushes Devon’s cheeks like an elderly aunt. “Such a brave, heroic activist!”

“Gotta show up for my people,” he says like he’s Clark Kent downplaying rescuing a bus full of kids.

“That’s just who you are, Devon. You care about people and equality.” She seems to be commending him for something she frustratingly lacks. “You’ll always be on the right side of history,” she philosophizes. “You showed up for my people, too. Remember you shared all those photos with me captioning MY FRIEND IS NOT A VIRUS.” She laughs. “That was actually kind of weird, dude. I didn’t expect to get like, fifteen notifications and see that many photos of myself as your Asian friend.”

Devon laughs, too. “I made sure they were good photos.”

“Yeah, they were.” They both smile, and Mai reflects on pleasant memories.

“How are you doing though?”

“Um. I’m fine?” She’s put off by the concern she detects in his voice. “Why? You see me like, all the time. How are you?”

He backs off. “I’m good, I’m fine.” Devon checks his phone. “I’m actually heading to this small gathering in a bit. Do you want to come?”

“Who’s going to be there?”

“Not sure. This cute guy at the protest invited me. It’s going to be less than 10 people though. Well, maybe 11 if you come.”

“You already know I won’t go, but have fun. Who’s the guy? Show me pics.”

“When I get his IG, I’ll show you.” Devon puts on his shoes. “Thanks for letting me stop by.” He takes his mask from his pocket and wears it. “Your birthday’s next week, right? You have any plans yet for the big 3-0.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Devon?” Mai screams. “I’m turning 29, NOT 30!”

Devon cracks up. “Damn, ’twas a joke. And nothing wrong with 30. I know beautiful ass women in their 40s thirst trapping college boys.”

“Um, ew. Ok, I love you my pretty friend.” Mai gives Devon a big hug. “Have fun on your date.”

The door closes, leaving her with a moment of uneasy quiet. No screens, no music, no friends.

She hasn’t eaten all day, and a pizza sounds nice. Mai is browsing DoorDash when she gets an incoming FaceTime call from her mom. She sighs and answers.

“Yes.”

An elegant 60-something Vietnamese woman with micro-bladed brows squints into the screen, trying to assess everything about Mai’s life from what she can see. Behind her is Mai’s dad, an older Asian man with an impressive head of hair still.

“Mai! Where are you? At home?” her mother asks frantically.

“That’s correct,” Mai answers with calm agitation. “As you can see, I am at my home.”

“Good! Don’t go outside too much. Coronavirus is still out there.”

Her dad echoes. “Yes, Mai. Very dangerous, ok? There is been more spikes.”

“Don’t be spring break, don’t be dancing at beach with all those people!”

“I haven’t been on spring break in eight years. But ok, Mom,” Mai says.

Her mom goes on, “Are you eating? What did you eat today?”

“Nothing yet. I was just about to order a pizza.”

“Pizza! Is so unhealthy. Why you won’t make vegetables or noodles?”

“Pizza is fast, pizza is cheap, and pizza never fails to fill me up. It’s efficient.”

“Why you need efficiency for right now?” her mom rebuts. “How is your day? What did you do?”

“I brushed my teeth, and I’m rewatching Handmaid’s Tale.”

“That’s it? You do any of the exercise? You apply for more graphic arts jobs? How about something productive?”

“I watched an episode of Shark Tank.”

Mai’s mom rolls her eyes.

“I like that guy, Mark Cuban!” her dad says. “I like that Indian guy, too. They are smart men.”

“All day you are watching other people’s success,” Mai’s mom reasons. “Why? Why you are not working on your own?”

Mai considers this point. “That’s actually a pretty accurate description of my life,” she states indifferently.

“You know, Mai. Now is very interesting time. It will be history, especially for the young people like you,” her mother states. “There is so much with the human rights. The white people, and the black people, and the Asian people, where the virus is from… It’s a drama. You should make one of your designs about this!”

“I should make a graphic design about the pandemic and racial tensions?”

“Yes! Why not? You are artist. Artist expresses what happens in the world. Like, that koi image you had once draw. All the fish are swimming up the stream, it symbols overcoming challenge. I liked that picture you draw. And now, you can add Martin Luther King, who never give up on his dream.” Her mother visualizes excitedly, staring off to somewhere past the screen. “And all the fish are different colors.”

“You want me to draw Martin Luther King as a koi fish… and add a bunch of brown and white and black fish, all swimming upstream. And a bunch of yellow fish on the side, and what? Masks and virus particles? And this will somehow be an inspirational piece that makes some sort of important statement about all of 2020.”

“Sure!” They’re getting somewhere, her mom thinks. “And in center, you can paint me and your daddy. To your parents, who always love and support you. We never give up on you, Mai. Just like Dr. King, we never give up.”

“Alrighty then,” Mai vetoes. “I’m gonna order a pizza. Anything else, or can I end this call?”

Her mother frowns. “Why you such rude girl? No one wants to have such dark negative girl as friend or as wife. Mai, you need to change that.”

Spotting the conversation taking a turn, her father intervenes. “No! Mai is smart and strong girl. And she is beautiful! She looks like her mother and like her daddy.” He strikes his fist to his knee. “She is good girl! I would marry Mai!”

Mai grimaces. “Well thank you once again, parents, for another delightful conversation. I am going to get some dinner, as I am famished, but I look forward to our next call.”

“Ok, Mai. Order salad. We love you.” Mai’s mother says.

“Bye bye, Mai.”

Mai hangs up.

She’s about to purchase her medium pizza and liter of soda when she sees that delivery fees have tacked on nearly eight dollars to her order. The fuck? she thinks. Screw it, she’s going to Trader Joe’s.

Mai is in the snack aisle deciding between Ketchup Flavored Spud Crunchies and Ranch Seasoned Crispy Chickpeas when someone says, “Get the ketchup chips. Definitely.”

She turns to see a handsome man in his 30s. He’s racially ambiguous, bearded, and wearing an Under Armour mask. “They remind me of home,” he says.

“Where’s home?” Mai asks, intrigued.

“Canada.”

“Oh.” she says flatly.

“I’ve been in LA for three months now. I came right before everything started shutting down, so this Trader Joe’s is pretty much all I’ve seen of the city.”

Mai looks around. “In all honesty, this is a pretty good representation. You got a lot of juice junkies and yoga instructors here.” She points to a man wearing a deep, deep V neck. “He definitely meditates.”

“Right. His Instagram stories are giving us all the guidance we need to get through these difficult times.”

“Seems a lot of people are having spiritual awakenings.” Mai says, making a candid observation.

The snack aisle guy musters a tone of positivity. “I guess we’ll all come out of this stronger and changed, for the better,” he regurgitates some PC statement he’s heard.

“I suppose…” Mai reflects, “I mean it’s great so many people get to go through beautiful transformations, reassessing priorities, learning patience and appreciation. That’s great for them. Everyone keeps talking about how we’ll evolve as a human race.” She scrunches her face. “But this situation is also pretty fucked. 40 million Americans are unemployed, barely surviving. A lot of people are dying from this. A lot of people have died alone this year, and a lot of people have lost their loved ones without being able to say goodbye. What’s that? Just the collateral?” Mai feels like she’s finally getting something off her chest. It’s easier to talk when words aren’t expected from her. “And it’s amazing we’re having all this social change. I mean that sincerely. We’re in the midst of the largest civil rights movement in history. But it took a nine minute video of a man–someone’s father–being suffocated to death going viral in order for us to pay attention. And how about all the people before George Floyd? Breonna Taylor? Tamir Rice?–That kid was twelve. And then Rayshard Brooks just got murdered this week for fuck’s sake.” Mai’s words turn a few heads. She lowers her volume. “Like, it’s cool, a portion of the population, the majority of the population even, will survive this and have tales of personal growth. But as survivors, we’ll indulge in fruitful life experiences and butterfly emojis through all the pain, just because, by some freak accident, we got lucky? As if on top not dying, we get a prize. What makes us deserve that?” She ends her tirade. “Anyway, I don’t know.”

He’s absolutely captivated. “Thank you, I’m so glad I heard that.” He tries to contribute to the conversation. “Well if it’s any consolation, I’ve been feeling pretty shitty myself because this shut down hasn’t really affected me. I’m already used to working remote, being in software development, so while everyone’s going through changes and challenges, I’ve just been in my stupid little bubble per usual. And work’s been busy. I haven’t even gotten the chance to slow down, pay attention and reflect. It’s like humanity’s on this collective ride that I’m not a part of.” He throws out his hands. “You had a lot of profound insights. I’m basically just a waste of space, really,” he says with a smile, indulging her.

For some reason the bizarreness of this moment, striking intimacy with a stranger in a grocery store during a dystopian crisis, makes perfect sense to her. And also, no sense at all. Out of nowhere, Mai feels inclined to sing that Fallout Boy song. “We’re going down, down in an earlier round. And Sugar, we’re going down swinging,” she warbles.

Her new companion is completely thrown off but charmed. He starts laughing, and Mai laughs, too.

His laugh is warm and full, and it feels cozy.

Then, it becomes gruff. It becomes choppy and hoarse.

He breaks into a cough.

Mai stops laughing. “You alright there?”

But he can’t answer. He’s still coughing. People start clearing the aisle, and Mai takes a few steps back as well.

“Well, um. It was nice meeting you.” She holds up the ketchup chips. “I’m getting these.”

He’s starting to catch his breath.

“You should, uh, get that checked out.”

He clears his throat a few more times.

“Stay safe!” she says before turning down the frozen foods aisle.