The Shot

“Have you gotten your shot yet?” A swimmer from Hilltopia stops me at the corner of 32^nd and Roosevelt. I haven’t seen him in a while, but he seems the same: Fit and friendly.

This is the latest greeting on my pandemic pacings. Everyone is curious if you’re on the road to immunity. Fortunately, I am and tell him so.

“Me, too,” he says, “Oh, here, let me put on my mask.”

He pulls it out of his pocket, performing the necessary adjustments under his hat and sunglasses. I’m glad he has the mask, but man, I’m sick of the whole masking up. It’s just so tiresome. And the experts are saying, (Who? Dr. Fauci? Kaiser Permanente?) that we’ll have to continue with mask-wearing and social distancing even after we’ve been vaccinated.

            Well, then what’s the point? I mean, I suppose I understand that even if we’re vaccinated, we might still carry the virus and transmit it to those who aren’t vaccinated yet. Like young people. And kids.

            But for groups of old people or fellow educators, if we’re all vaccinated, can’t we let our guard down just a bit?

            I saw on the news how a group of Old People, all of whom had been vaccinated, were out partying. (Can Old People party? Your bet your ass they can! Let lose Grandma! Shake your booty, Grandpa!) They were gathered in a park, all seated on their little folding chairs, like the kind you bring to watch Shakespeare in the Park, with bottles of fine wine, cheeses, and grapes, toasting to their newfound freedom from Covid!

            I wanted to join them, but I can’t drink. For other reasons that are still a mystery to me, but that’s neither here nor there.

            The point is, if we are all in a group and everyone’s vaccinated, then we can let loose a bit.

            I’m sure ready for that!

            It would be nice to be out walking and when I run into someone I want to chat with, we could just pause and exchange the latest without having to muffle our words behind a mask. Because as I’ve said before, I can’t really hear everyone behind a mask and people can’t hear me.

            The other night at the Dive Tank check-in, the polite young lifeguard asked me my name. I told him and he heard something entirely different---Teresita. For a moment, I thought of telling him I was Teresita. Maybe she wasn’t in the Dive Tank and had a Real Lane, but then I thought, what if Teresita showed up? And I was in her lane?

            Well, it wouldn’t be pretty. And, frankly, I’ve decided not to fight the Dive Tank banishment anymore.

            I’m just wishing that the Herd Immunity would happen faster!

            Hilltop Swimmer is going on about how Berkeley is supposed to open. What is he talking about? The Berkeley Y? He was telling me this 6 months ago. Is he on a Repeat Loop?

            Tonight, I just nod and agree that if Berkeley opened their pool that would be cool. Cuz all I’m doing is walking and Dive Tanking.

            “I have a rowing machine,” he brags.

     Of course, he does. He’s a manly workout guy. These types have equipment. Even during a pandemic. Or maybe esp. during a pandemic.

            “I don’t have a rowing machine,” I state the obvious, or at least to me. “I just walk and swim in the stupid Dive Tank.”

            He laughs. I can hear his amusement in spite of the mask. “Well, that’s better than nothing!” he proclaims.

            And, I have to agree. It is better than nothing, but hell, I just want to get my second shot and do a little partying, you know?

            Sans mask. Sans Social Distancing. Sans Anxiety.

            It’s time to embrace the future.

            If only it would get her sooner!

            “Well, nice to see you,” he starts off down Roosevelt, taking the mask off once the 6 ft distance is assured.

            “Yes, you, too!” I also take down my mask, tucking it under my chin, before heading in the opposite direction.  The evening light casts pink shadows on the grey cement sidewalk as I put one foot in front of the other, breathing in the cool spring air. 

Peanut Butter

         “Hey Lady! Hellooooo Laaady!!!”

I hear the rumbling of the old beater behind me. The voice bellowing above its sputtering. I’m startled at first. Who’s hollering at me now? I quicken my step, having turned off Roosevelt onto 30^th Street toward Barrett. But the car follows me. Makes the turn too.

            It idles in the middle of the street, its owner hanging out the window, cigarette smoke blasting out the open window. I don’t know him, of course. But that never stops anyone, esp. Strange Men, from hailing me. What does this guy want? I try to ignore him, but it’s impossible as he leans out the window, grinning at me, a dirty beanie on his head, a delighted twinkle in his eye.

            “I’m looking for peanut butter!” he hollers at me.

            What???? He can’t have said that, right? I mean, peanut butter? Why would he be looking for that? And more importantly, why would he tell me or ask me? It’s not like I’m rolling a peanut butter cart down the street. “Get your peanut butter now! Fresh outta the Jiffy Jar!”

            My father loved peanut butter. He’d pile Saltines high into a tower, slathered in peanut butter to make little square sandwiches. I remember his unabashed delight at these little peanut butter squares. When I went to visit him at his sad little apartment in the Valley, during his separation from my mother, this is the first thing he offered. A Saltine peanut butter sandwich appetizer before the main course of spaghetti and Ragu sauce from a jar.

            This guy obviously likes peanut butter too. But, why tell me? I could tell him to continue down 30^th street, make a left-hand turn, head down Barrett till 37^th. He’ll see Val Mar on the corner. I’m sure they have peanut butter there. Though maybe not. It’s mostly a liquor store with a nice ice cream section. The owners know their neighborhood clientele.

            Peanut Butter Man continues to grin at me. No mask, of course. I can’t help but grin behind my mask at his request. But don’t offer him the directions to Val Mar. I try not to engage with these strange men on my Pandemic Pacings, but they always seem to find me. I keep thinking my Weirdo Magnet will die out as I age, but frankly, it seems worse. What is it about me that sparks an invitation to engage? It’s not like I’m asking for it. These men just see me, follow me, and then ask me weird questions.

            Like, I’m looking for peanut butter? Or was it I’m looking for peanut butter. Just an assertion, letting me know what his day’s purpose was.

            Who knows? I still can’t really believe that this is what he said. But what else could it have been? I’m looking for people butter? I’m looking for peanut water?

            He’s still grinning at me, then starts to move away slowly, his old beater car chugging out exhaust. “It’s a beautiful day!” he calls out.

            “Yes, it is,” I agree.

            “You have a blessed one!” He waves goodbye.

            “Thanks, you too,” I say, hoping he finds the peanut butter he’s looking for. After all, he may just be in search of protein. A good thing that we all could use.

            As I watch his old car sputter away, I notice his license plate. The number written indecipherably in red crayon. Is he on the lam? Is the quest for peanut butter some clandestine enterprise?

            A group of masked neighbors are milling about in front of one of their houses, socially distanced and chatting seriously. None of them look at me. None of them watch Peanut Butter Man drive away.

            I shrug and walk on. The pink flowers are blooming on the fruit trees, the clouds puffy against the grey blue sky. I turn the corner and head up Barrett. No Peanut Butter here, but the day is young.

           

Core Nature Thing

 

“Haaaalloooo! OOOhhhh! Yooohoooo!”

I turn around, pausing against the cold grey wind and steep incline on my way up Clinton Hill. A tall, darkly clad figure is hollering at me, waving and maybe smiling---can’t tell because of the mask. Who the hell knows me? And beyond that, who knows me and would be hollering at me?

            “Haaallooo!” The figure is closer now and I see who it is---V, the Scottish Lady. As she approaches me, I back away, hyperaware of social distancing. I’ve avoided the virus for nearly a year, now. No need to get it when the vaccine is on my horizon.

            Yet, she’s still striding toward me, her eyes sparkling, her thin blue mask heaving in and out as I decide that I have no choice but to wait for her. See what she wants. She’s probably just being neighborly, but I’m in a rush. Have a class to teach on Zoom in an hour and just wanted to get some air before 3 hours in front of the computer.

            “How are you?” she asks, stepping in stride with me as I start up the hill. Damn. I don’t want to walk with her. It scares me. I know people walk with each other during this Pandemic, donning their masks, but keeping the social distance? How is this possible while you’re walking.

            It’s not.

            People naturally veer closer to those they’re talking to. And the Scottish woman is no exception as she walks too close to me as we march up the little hill. What do I do? Do I tell her to get away from me? Do I run up on the sidewalk, out of the street where we currently are walking. If I’m up on the sidewalk and she’s in the street, then maybe that’s enough distance. But then how do you carry on a conversation?

            Gawd. I’m so sick of it all! I just want everything to go back to ‘normal’—whatever that will look like once everyone is vaccinated, or most people are.

            I don’t tell her what I’m really thinking. “I’m fine.”

            “Really?” She’s dubious. “Most people I ask....” She makes the hand gesture, palm down, rocking slightly that means, I’m okay. Or as they say in Spanish, “Así así”.

            “Yeah,” I am up on the sidewalk—she’s on the street now—yelling the conversation at me. I yell back, “I’m working a lot, so I guess I don’t have time to dwell on things...”

            “Oh, what kind of work do you do if you don’t mind my asking?” When did it become not okay to ask people what kind of work they do? Maybe it’s a European thing. My French friend (I have no idea what job she does after years) told me once that it’s not polite, or even rude, to ask people what they do for a living.

            I find this weird, but I’m American. “I teach writing at FFU,” I say.

            “Oh! I would like to take writing from you! I write! Well, I try to write. I write every day. I don’t always like it. But I can’t not do it. Do you know what I mean?”

            We’re at the top of the little hill now, pausing for a moment. Her blue mask continues to heave in and out, in and out, with each breath. It seems so thin and insubstantial. I’m scared that it’s not enough protection. Couldn’t spittle and air come through it and land on me even with the mask?

            I want to get away from her being this close. Even though I like her. Even though she’s talking about writing. But everyone does once I say I’m a writing teacher. Everyone is a writer.

            I tell her that, yeah, most writers feel at odds with the craft at times.

            She nods, taking this in. Then asks me if she can take writing from me. I tell her that sometimes I take private clients but not now. I’m too busy. I’ll keep in touch with her.

            I glance down the hill toward the right, wondering which way she’s headed so I can go the opposite. Again, it’s so weird that we all have to worry about this. Yet, the Scottish Lady doesn’t seem worried at all.            

            “Walking is good,” I offer, “but I miss swimming.” Why am I telling her this? I wish I were in the pool right now!

            “You’re a swimmer, are you?”

            “Yeah, but it’s hard right now. The pools are either closed or booked up. I did swim in the bay. though,  during the summer.”

            “Oh, did you now!” she exclaims. “That is a very Core Nature Thing to do!”

            I nod. Wondering what the hell that means but liking it a lot. Is swimming at my core and so it’s a natural thing to do? Maybe, she’s got it!

            She turns to head up the next little hill and I take my opportunity to head in the opposite direction.

            “Bye, now!” she waves, her long legs carrying her up the incline.

            “Bye,” I holler back to her, my core nature switching to walking as the brisk wind hits me in the face. Thinking how at least I have another walking story. Writing--that’s my Core Nature thing to do!