Trump once described General H.R. McMaster as someone who “bores the shit out of me,” and finished the insult by saying he “looks like a beer salesman.”
It’s now the year 2020, and this is what a beer salesman looks like—stepping out of their small SUV, walking up to your door. He’s not wearing a “civilian suit,” but jeans, a ball cap, and blue latex gloves.
“Your order came in late last night after we dispatched everything,” Jon Fritz, co-Founder of Hopewell Brewing Company in Chicago, says. “So I figured I’d just bring this one myself.” There’s as much fear as there is gratitude in his eyes.
It’s an odd feeling, standing at a prescribed distance from someone you know, having a candid conversation, anxiously describing all the ways in which you’re “okay,” but not being sure of the longevity of that sentiment. All the while your hands are tucked under your armpits to keep them from instinctively reaching out for a shake, a hug, or a pat on the shoulder. Hands, especially kind ones, have their own muscle memory that way.
He adjusts his gloves uncomfortably every few seconds and makes a pantomimed kind of wave as he backs up and says goodbye.
“Banks, rent, and people,” he says. “We’re working through it all. Putting people first as long as we can.”
Words + Photoby Michael Kiser