I stood in the jerky aisle of the CVS. I never knew that the shoe leathery treat came in so many varieties and sizes. The colorful packages momentarily distracted me from my mission, and I don’t even eat red meat. An instruction follower, I made sure to keep my toes on the line of red tape adhered to the worn, grey-once-brown low pile carpet - Stay here to keep six feet apart - as I perused the meaty snacks. I ended up there by heeding the bidding of the kind woman sitting behind a slab of plexiglass at what looked like one of the tray tables my mom would let us eat supper on “in front of the TV” in our tiny Howard Beach apartment foyer on special occasions (or more likely when she couldn’t be bothered with anything more elaborate than the Swanson’s fried chicken TV Dinners that my sister and I thought were the best weekday treat possible).
After asking for my name and birthdate, she handed me the much-coveted CDC Covid-19 vaccination card, with the date, manufacturer, and lot number of my first dose. I felt like Charlie Bucket holding a Golden Ticket for the Willy Wonka Chocolate Factory tour, and I wouldn’t even have to wait as long as he did for my treat. I had only to wander down the jerky aisle for my jab.
Jab in the UK, shot here, either way the word evokes violence. Aptly, I suppose, as a stranger sticks a needle in an upper arm and pumps the deltoid muscle full of a mysterious clear liquid. The stuff that the Scandinavian crime drama shows I’m hooked on are made of. But unlike those Finns and Swedes, I volunteered for the assault, happily baring my left limb. And certainly, this nanosecond of brutality is the epitome of cruelty to be kind (to paraphrase Prince Hamlet). The savagery wrought by the spiky virus is far more virulent, frightening, and destructive than all the collective arm pokes the world over.
Still, standing in this chain drug store in my K-N95 mask, three people back, felt just as surreal as everything about this whole coronavirus-crowned year. A year ago almost to the day, I stood in line at LaGuardia Airport to meet my oldest son at the AWP Conference in San Antonio. The pandemic had only whispered in our ears here in the US at that point, and although other organizers had cancelled events, the AWP plowed ahead, despite nearly half of presenters, vendors, and participants having declined to attend. I think of how, while we kept our distance from others and sanitized our hands every ten seconds, at risk we were. No one wore masks, anywhere. We dined at restaurants, sat in seminars, and worst of all, in crowded airport lounges and even more crowded planes. My son told me of the flight attendant who stood behind his back row seat and sneezed and coughed into the halo of air around his halo of hair. It is a miracle that neither of us contracted the disease, and I’m forever grateful for that.
Neither of us – none of us – could have imagined or would have believed what the world would look like twelve months later. I reflected on all of this as I stood and gazed at the jerky selections. Thoughts and emotions swirled as the serum would in my bloodstream. Would I catch Covid-19 while I waited? (I know someone who did between her first and second shot). I marveled that scientists managed to develop, test, and distribute this stuff that dreams of freedom and health are made on (to paraphrase Propsero), in record time. I felt both elation and trepidation at the imminent needle stick. A diligent recipient of flu jabs and other helpful inoculations, I couldn’t help but wonder if this one had adequate vetting and data to prove it safe and effective, despite what Dr. Fauci has averred. I had read way too many tales of woeful side effects and worried that misery would follow the ecstasy. I struggled to wrap my head around even the glimmer of light at the end of this dismal tunnel of the world going back to a new normal.
In the meantime, things moved along nicely in my own tunnel – the beef jerky aisle at CVS. The first man in line peppered the wizards behind the canvas privacy curtains with questions. “How many shots have you given? Has anyone had a reaction? Is this one better than Pfizer?” “SHUT UP AND LET THEM DO THEIR WORK!!!” I wanted to, but didn’t, shout. I was a little edgy. The woman behind him, clearly on her way to an apres-ski soirée, donned tight white jeans, only-recently-slaughtered-shaggy-animal fur boots, a tight-fitting Moncler parka, and a color-coordinated Balenciaga bag for the occasion. The man directly in front of me stood somber and more humbly dressed in monotone, slightly shabby khakis, pea coat, and beanie. His head down, he seemed as disinterested in the peacock in front of him as he was in the jerky assortment that fascinated me. The humanity.
This microcosm ahead of me indeed represented the humanity of the bigger situation. Nothing mattered in the face of this disease. It did not discriminate on any of the bases that normally separate and distinguish us. And although I have read of privileged enclaves and scheming sorts wangling their way to early vaccine access, this process has, as fraught with logistical and ethical concerns as it has been, been largely fair and efficient for an effort of its scope and magnitude. When I finally sat down in that coveted seat and bared my left arm for the masked magician with the needle, I wanted to channel Pat Benatar and say, “hit me with your best shot,” but I thought of the man in front of the line noodging these overworked angels, and so instead I simply said, “thank you.” Three times.
As surreal as the entirety of this pandemic has been, I feel lucky. Lucky to have had an appointment to stand in line in the jerky aisle at CVS in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Lucky, after the quick prick, to sit for fifteen minutes with the other poked folks among an array of antihistamines and decongestants in a makeshift, socially distanced waiting area, to be observed for anaphylaxis. Lucky to have the opportunity to repeat the whole process again in 30 days for the ultimate golden ticket of immunity. “Noc, noc, who’s inoculated? I am.”
What a wonderful, expressive way to memorialize this historic time and your own observations on it. Reminds of two things. The first is Joan Didion's essay "Why I Write" (a reaction to George Orwell's essay with the same title), in which she describes her fascination with details and evocatively states "I write to find out what I'm thinking". The second is a section of the poem "Musophilus" by my favorite Elizabethan poet that is not Shakespeare, Samuel Daniel. He celebrates the power of words ("Blessed Letters") to communicate with others, including future generations. Hope you don't mind that I'll give you an extended quotation from it.
In any case, thank you for sharing so eloquently your observations and thoughts on what we are going through.
Musophilus (Samuel Daniel)
Whenas, perhaps, the words thou scornest now,
May live, the speaking picture of the mind,
The extract of the soul that labored how
To leave the image of herself behind,
Wherein posterity that love to know
The just proportion of our spirits may find.
For these lines are the veins, the arteries,
And undecaying life-strings of those hearts
That still shall pant and still shall exercise
The motion spirit and nature both imparts,
And shall with those alive so sympathize,
As nourish'd with their powers enjoy their parts.
O blessed letters that combine in one
All ages past and make one live with all,
By you we do confer with who are gone,
And the dead living unto counsel call;
By you th'unborn shall have communion
Of what we feel and what doth us befall.
A clever and vivid piece, Diane. Unfortunately, my original admiring comment disappeared into the mists. If you stumble across it, I recall that it’s as terse as a Raymond Carver story; not indicative of the myriad pleasures rendered by the essays.