Reflections on a Day in All of This

Dave asked a few writers to put together thoughts about life during the pandemic, so here’s mine:

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There are some who say I’m depressing most of the time. That makes sense, since most of the time I’m depressed. While this offering may not be happy, you may find the generosity in your sand clogged heart to agree it’s at least mildly amusing.

It’s also true.

Things have been a little tense lately. You watch the news a lot, right? We get the important stuff in puzzle piece-sized tidbits. It’s an occasion worthy of a good night’s sleep when you can put enough together to be partially informed. It’s better than nothing.

My wife and I are on the short end of solvent. Barely enough digits to last the month. We own a little house on a quiet street, and if we don’t look too far ahead, we can be content - for a while. Other times, "the tumblers click into place and the Universe opens to show you whats possible.”

That’s a line from the movie, Field of Dreams, a fantasy about fathers and sons and renewal. Don’t know it? Think " Signs" crossed with" It’s a Wonderful Life". I rather liked it.

Today was such a day.

Because Santa Claus is coming to town.

After three weeks trapped “safely” in my home, Congress passed a stimulus bill. Finally, they let one go by that actually benefits the taxpayer - nothing suspicious like clean air or water. I reveled in an anticipatory glow.

My plans are quite boring. Paying bills. I’m being responsible. Being homeless during a plague doesn’t make sound financial sense to me. If Uncle Sam needs more stimulation, I suggest a Korean massage.

So the air smelled delightfully of sausages. A faint tinge of pink was gently massaging my eyeballs.

Tumblers, Universe, possible.

Tenuous contentment watered down this man’s sour disposition. Sadly, it was then that I heard the man say "arrearages in fees, penalties, or income taxes will be deducted from your stimulus check.”

(doh)

“Starve, bitch, you owe me money.” Thank you, America. Feast upon my broken bones.
“Asshole”. I have a thin skin. This will sting a while.

So, I decided to stop at the bank, deposit my check and have a rare treat of fried chicken for lunch. My grocery store , normally busy, felt tense. Frustrated. At the door was an abnormally authoritarian checkout clerk with a container of wipes. Sensing the recitation of some ordinance or other, I let her nab someone else as I jumped through the door.

“Ahh!”, she yells. Surprisingly strong, stubby fingers grabbed the loose skin on the back of my arm and yanked me back outside. I can only describe the pain as agony. It felt like she was severing my arm with the rubber handrail of an escalator.

“One for one, one for one. Get behind the line until someone comes out” she howls. Like a carnival barker. I had come to both hate and fear her. I waited meekly, then rushed past her - I thought she might snag me with a nutcracker.

Again cheerful, I stepped up to the deli counter. My quarry waited behind warm glass.
But there was no fried chicken!

“Any chicken cooking?”

“Gotta put her down, still.”

“How long?”

"20 minutes, after I start it.”

I’d rather watch a TED talk starring Uma Thurmann. Or Pauly Shore. Whichever.

"Any other chicken?”

“There’s the Gourmet Chicken Drummettes”. A misnomer. It’s one drummette and one “bird forearm”. I hate the misrepresentation. Michelin will never bless this place with a star. It’s Crème is milk (anything ending in E is supposed to be French). But you can appreciate the consistency: dried to a husk, awash in salad dressing, or waterlogged as a turnt halibut.

But I shouldn’t impugn their reputation. I encourage you to go there and insult them yourselves.

Yet I was short of choices, by now, Safeway’s wing bar was back in the fridge.
“Give me five original”, I said. Then I checked out my drummettes. “Are you sure they’re cooked enough?"
“Absolutely," says Netface Nick. "Fryer’s on a timer”. Would Nick steer me wrong?
I crack myself up sometimes.

Home going, my resistance failed. I fished out the goodies. Smells delish, but felt odd.
Checked the label, it says “chicken” (it also tells me that I paid over .70 each for the damn things). A little short of a dollar fifty per whole wing piece. Slightly less than a third of the price for a whole fried chicken. Nyeh, whatever.

I’ve been screwed worse lots of times.

Being as it’s a bitch to turn around, and I was still pretty hungry, I talked myself into hitting the bank and then going on home. I reached into the deli bag for a sample, and again, it felt…funny, not crispy.

Because it was so raw, it may have only been unconscious. Nick, buddy, we had a rapport. Why you gotta do me like that?

I pull into the Waffle Cone drive thru and get a large drink. Then, I aim my pickup at the ATM outside the co-op bank and coast it across the street. Parked the truck, got out, took out my bank card…I hadn’t picked up the check on the way out the door. This upsets me. I hop back into the pickup, back it up, crank the wheel the other way around to pull out on to the street and I see the Sheriff’s SUV pulling out across the street. I wave as I pull onto the street, so does he. I change to the center lane, ditto.

Of course he pulled me over. You can’t stop karma like this. It just rolls right over you. “Do you know why I stopped you?”

"The wave, right? Too cheeky?”

“Your license plate.”

“ Uh huh?"

“It’s improperly attached to your vehicle”.

“Officer, the rear bumper faces the ground. There are no brackets, nothing on the rear body to mount it to. I could wire it to the spare tire, but the dust……

" readily visible… license plate light… "

“It is plainly visible and the l.p. light isn’t on during the day”. You have headlights at night.
I’m trying to stay legal.“

“Drill a couple holes in your tailgate, screw it on that way….”

"Can you make me do that?”

“No".

"Then, no”.

"I’m just telling you you’re gonna have problems”.

"I’m sorry sir, I’m very poor. I can’t have bodywork done just to hang my license plate.”
He turned, either to open the passenger door, tase me, or beat me with a shotgun butt.
No, it was OK. He was just laying his Smokey Bear hat down for its nap.(?) It looked like the kind of nurturing affection you see in horse breeders, or guys who run cockfights.

“Can you help me out? I’ll fix it ASAP. “

“I wasn’t going to cite you”

We remount our jitneys. There’s the usual awkward pause as I stubbornly wait for him to leave first. Stifle the urge to wave. Lean over and put my wallet in my back pocket. Lean back, drink falls in my lap, lid slips off… douche. Three sips shy of full. So cold it made my tailbone hurt.

As I pulled in my driveway, I reflected. 45 minutes-
No drink, no lunch, no money, no pants. Life is good.