Veni, Vidi, Vaccine

The Shot That Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Coup

Siri announced that I had arrived.

I turned off NPR, shut down my Subaru Forester, and began fumbling through my documents. 

Photo ID? Check. 

Kaiser card? Check. 

Face mask? Ready. 

I put my documents into my wallet, slid it into my right back pocket, stepped out into the parking lot, and strapped on my mask. I checked the time: 4:03. 

Time to get a move on. My vaccine appointment was in just two minutes. 

I looked across the parking lot, gained my bearings, took in a breath, let it out, and my glasses fogged over. Indeed, I had arrived: it’s spring, 2021.

In just a few minutes, I could worry just a bit less about my children’s father. 

This was a good birthday present. 

Only yesterday, I had turned 48—on the Ides of March. Just two millennia ago, at the age of 55, poor Caesar had been stabbed 23 times.

But for my merely mortal ambitions—keeping my grip on paternity, not the Republic itself—one stab would do for now. 

In a few weeks, I’d get that coveted second stab.

Don’t get me wrong. Even after getting that second shot, I’ll still be happy to keep my mask on. 

I may be a white man, but I’m no bandit. 

I’m not even particularly handsome. 

Nor do I take it to be an affront to my individual liberty to do my part. I’m a big boy, and I’m old enough to know that liberty is to be found at that old crossroads—where rights and responsibilities meet.

Now a minute late for my appointment, I pick up my pace, follow the signs, and approach the building where I’ll get my shot. On the shaggy green grass, people sit—thirty to forty individuals—all in masks, all about six feet apart, each following the brave new rules and recommendations.

Some listen to earbuds, in the cool of the early spring sun. 

Others read the news, or text, or get a chapter in on their phones. Medical personnel stand nearby, monitoring them for the recommended fifteen to thirty minutes, in case anyone has an allergic reaction to the vaccine. 

Then they can receive care.

Noticing the poles and ropes set up to corral in the likes of me, I make my way forward and come face to face with a medical provider—a black man, probably my age, probably also a dad, whose hair is just a touch longer than the stubble on my shaved head. 

My Korean wife says I look like a monk. 

I suppose it comes down to perspective.

Now, this man glances up from his clipboard, glances over me, and takes a breath through his mask to ask me a question. Anticipating he’ll ask for my identification, I slide my hand into my back right pocket and pull out my wallet.

His eyes grow wide as the open sky.

Then, he dives into laughter.

Stomping out a full circle, he turns from me, then comes in to land: “Man, that was scary!”

A full quarter second passes before I see what he saw.

I look to my left, to all the people on the lawn, some staring at their phones, some reading the news, others looking up to see what just happened.

I look to my right, to him, pull my documents out of my wallet, hand them to him, and apologize.

He continues to laugh. 

“It’s all right, my man.”

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