Untouchable

Chapter 1

Dean Park
"Mask ✔️, Hand sanitizer ✔️, Gloves ✔️, and finally, Bleach?" I glance around, ticking off items on my list as I find them. My supply of sanitary products is dwindling, and my OCD is not pleased. Hi, I'm Dean—Dean Parks, and I struggle with a cleaning disorder, also known as OCD or Germaphobia. You might be curious about Germaphobia. It's quite straightforward: the persistent fear of germs or anything that could compromise one's pristine health.

Typically, germaphobia pertains to objects believed to harbor germs at a given moment. However, doctors say my case is unique because my fear of germs centers around humans. Indeed, humans. You might think it's absurd. How can one avoid contact with family or friends? It's true, that embracing your mother is essential, which is why I always have my gloves, mask, and hand sanitizer ready.

Looking down, I realize I still haven't found the bleach. As I stroll through the market aisles, I reach the cleaning section. "Bleach," I mutter, eyes darting between Lysol and Fabuloso. I take a few more steps, searching for the product. "Damn it! This is exactly what I needed the most." Frustration seeps out as I sigh, fiddling with my mask's tip. I return to my cart, peering inside. My gaze lands on my hand sanitizer. It seems Fabuloso will have to suffice until I can visit another store. I scratch my head in annoyance, mumbling through my mask.

I tossed the product into my basket, seized the handles, and wheeled my cart toward the checkout. Normally, I opt for self-checkout to minimize human interaction. Yet, as I survey the area, there are no self-checkout stations in sight. "You've got to be kidding me," I mutter, scanning the space again. This is Walmart, right? Shouldn't there be self-checkouts?

I sigh in frustration, attempting to soothe my nerves as I glance at the cashiers. Observing them, I note four seemingly working diligently, evidenced by the sweat covering them. The thought makes me cringe. It's quite off-putting.

What makes it worse is that they would have to touch my products. It's bad enough that the workers who put them on the shelf do it. I sigh, pushing my basket up to the first register. Behind the counter stood an African-American girl who looked no older than fifteen. She was chewing gum and would blow it into a bubble until it got big enough to pop on her sweaty face. Then she would put the gum back in her mouth and repeat the process.

"That's so revolting, especially considering the spit particles that scatter each time the gum bubble bursts," my train of thought is halted by the sound of her clearing her throat.

"Are you going to place your items on the counter or stand there? Please decide quickly because I don't have all day, and neither do the people waiting in line behind you," the young girl says, her face contorting with annoyance. I clear my throat, apologize, and begin unloading my items from the cart onto the counter. She starts scanning each item. "Why are you wearing a mask? The COVID season is over, mask boy. You don't need it unless you're some freak. Your total is $35.95, by the way." I shake my head vigorously, replying, "No, I don't believe I'm a freak. COVID season is over, but one can never be too cautious. After all, there are more illnesses out there than just COVID."

She rolls her eyes at me as I hand over my payment. "Siri, huh?" I muse, glancing at her name tag, wondering if it's her first or last name. Our hands briefly touch as she returns my change. I'm throwing these away, As I gather my bags, I could hear the girl mumble something under her breath. I assumed the word was 'freak.' It might have been 'weirdo,' but it didn't matter. I was used to being called names.

I unlock my car and open the door to access the trunk. Walking to the back, I place the bags inside. Before closing the trunk, I retrieve a hand sanitizer from one of the bags. After closing the trunk, I return to the open door hopping into the car. I remove my mask, take a deep breath, and discard my gloves to the side. Then, I take my hand sanitizer and apply a small amount to my hands. I haven't touched anything with my bare hands, but I always need to feel that my hands are clean.

Ensuring my hands and body are clean helps prevent panic attacks. I sigh, starting my car and glancing at the compartment for my phone and another pair of gloves. I extract a pair of black rubber gloves, snapping them on my wrist. I close the compartment, then grab my phone with my other hand. Turning it on, I see three missed calls from 'That one dude' and a text message.

That one Dude🗣:
Where are you? The boss is driving me loons.

Me:
I'm on my way. I had to stop at the store and tell Grandpa to calm down, please 🙏 🤦‍♂️

I set my phone down and press the start button; the engine cranks up, and I'm on my way. The radio volume goes up as "Track Star" by Lil Mooski fills the car.

A smile crosses my face as I adjust my mask, pausing at the red light. I can't help but sing along to some of the lyrics. His voice has a friendly quality and resonates with soulfulness in singing. And no, this isn't racial stereotyping—it's a trait many African Americans acknowledge. As the light turns green, I drive off, belting out my favorite part of the song.

"Love don't cost a thing it's a shame how much I pay for it love don't cost a thing a shame how much I gave for it! Heartbroken into peace, put tape on it. Fragile made out of glass, " I cease singing along with Mooski, fearing my terrible voice would spoil the entire song. As the music ends, I arrive at my workplace and park the car. You might be curious about my profession or employer. The answer is straightforward: I am an artist, specifically an animator. I bring life to cartoons and similar creations at Natsu Studio. With my work gear in hand, I approach the building, but before I can reach for the knob, the door abruptly swings open.

"Well, it's about fucking time, Dude!"