Lately, when I get up in the morning, before coffee, I see an old man looking at me from the mirror, wrinkled, overweight, barely awake, hair sticking up in wild tufts of gray chaos. Eyes glazed with disbelief and resignation, it’s a picture of a man who has drifted too far from shore.
It has been a long year.
Saturday, though, there was a little something there, a spark, maybe not a “twinkle” but at least a glimmer. I had an appointment for my first dose of the Covid19 vaccine.
Fresh ground Italian roast in the coffee maker, clothes laid out neatly on the bed, bacon sizzling in the pan, toast, butter, scrambled eggs and a touch of hot sauce, just a splash to add a hint of fire and a dash of coolor. Right by my keys and wallet were a disposable facemask and the polyester facemask with the Grateful Dead Blues for Allah album cover printed on it.
Yes, I wear two facemasks. When they told me to wear a face-covering I wrapped a bandana around my face, I looked as if I was ready to rob the stagecoach. When they said that wasn’t good enough I went and bought masks, several masks, my wife found some and we stocked up. When they said you needed two she bought a box of disposable masks and we carried on. When they said people 60 and over could sign up for the vaccine I did. My wife works for a school so she was way ahead of me, but Saturday was my day.
It’s been a long year.
We’ve added a hundred destinations to our travel list, casually screened from places like Atlas Obscura and Only In Your State, word of mouth and anything that provided a glimpse of life before and after a pandemic. Wanderlust is an old friend and we’ve spent many hours looking at ghost town locations, out of the way diners endorsed by the cholesterol manufacturers of America, odd little churches and forgotten cemeteries with attendant spirits where the action never stops. Places we haven’t been, but with a little will.
Street Fair is scheduled, tentatively, for October, the last two have been canceled, and we are planning on being there. I need to refuel my supply of tie-dyed shirts and little leather bracelets. You can never have too many. And, we need music in the air, the taste of homemade empanadas, the flash of sunlight off handcrafted jewelry hanging in booths in the middle of the street, the scented aromas of handmade candles and soap, the crushing choreography of crowds milling and flowing, following the irresistible laws of fluid motion.
It’s been a long year. But, getting vaccinated gives me a little hope that it will end someday. We need hope.
It was crowded at the pharmacy, a half dozen chairs were scattered around the displays. I wasn’t too sure what to do, so I found a spot that said “wait here” and waited, right on the spot. I know my place, even more so when they mark it on the floor with an orange dot.
“Are you waiting to sign up for your covid19 vaccination?” An older lady (not older than me, but older than most people) asked politely. She had a front-row seat, right by the topical analgesics and patches. The bright colors of the packaging framed her modest white jacket beautifully; it looked as if she dressed to sit there.
It had been so difficult making my appointment I spent all week worried about something happening. I was almost certain something was going to derail my plans. When she asked that question I felt the air turn cold and sour, recirculation fans stopped, furnaces shut down, all moving parts stood still. I blamed her. I was so angry I would rather rot in hell than acknowledge how wonderfully she complimented the festive ointments and creams. Despite my anger and disappointment, I had to play it cool.
“Yes, yes I am. And you?” I wasn’t sure how to approach this and thought I would put the ball back in her court, if you don’t mind a tennis metaphor.
“You’re standing in the wrong place. You need to be over there.” She pointed to the other end of the pharmacy where there were no dots at all.
“Thank you, I’m grateful.” And I was, I might still be standing there if it weren’t for her.
I walked right up and they took my information.
Twenty-five minutes later a busy pharmacist who didn’t have time to laugh at my jokes or mention how great my hair looked jabbed a needle in my arm and told me not to leave the store for 15 minutes, just to be safe.
I’m still masking up, gloving up and washing my hands with an obsessive passion, but things are looking up, or at least out, somewhere out there, and we’ll be ready. Man, will we be ready.
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This post is republished on Medium.
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