The Covid Chronicles 

From Cambridge MA

How unpredictable has life become in these times of the Covid. I step out my back door and smell something different—it’s the city air itself, now so fresh you actually want to take a deep breath. And the peaceful quiet: our normally bustling urban street is as sparse as a country road, and gone are the booming jets overhead. I can nearly hear myself think. The few errands left seem almost precious instead of merely annoying. I need a fill-up and wonder if my regular station is still pumping, and yes, it is! The gas jockey, a pleasant young man in a face mask, takes my card and does his job. As he hands me my receipt, I thank him and find myself handing him a fiver in return. His face, what I can see of it, lights up. These underpaid workers are on the front lines, and we tend to take them and their services for granted.



Next I head to my propane refill guy at the VFW. I haven’t seen him since last fall and wonder if he’s still in business, dispensing homespun wisdom along with the gas. Sure enough, out he comes--a sight for sore eyes. We grouse as old men do, mostly about the Covid hysteria. He tells me about his daughter who calls asking him to pick up a couple packs of cigs, and please leave them in the mailbox since she’s afraid to open the door. That really gets him going: I’m more likely to die of a heart attack in my outhouse in Vermont than I am from this damn virus, and if it does me in, so be it coz I ain’t hiding out in my house from no damn virus, and don’t people realize it has to spread so we can build immunity? I pay him plus tip for the common sense in short supply.



Last stop is my favorite store of the few left open in our state: Ocean State Job Lot, the place you go to buy cheap the things you didn’t know you needed. These days it’s sadly empty, and I feel the need to go there and give support. I usually wear my double filter mask that supposedly strains out viral particles, even though I’m pretty sure I already caught the Covid several months ago. For his enlightenment I bring along Michael, our visiting Harvard lecturer in the Classics. As we enter he says in his professorial tone: so this is just like Wal-Mart’s. I’m hoping no one catches this heresy, but the lady stocking shelves nearby did, and she takes exception. This is not like Wal-Mart’s at all says she with something between annoyance and indignation: we give deep discounts, like our $250 Italian fry pan for $20, and this wireless charger for $6.99! I wanted to distance myself from Michael at that point, but it was too late. I lean in to take a closer look, momentarily forgetting to distance myself from her until she barks, back off! Properly chastened we set about our shopping. To make amends I end up buying the Italian fry pan and the wireless charger. Michael amends with a key chain for me that says I LOVE GOLF.



Speaking of which, I spent the long New England winter trapped like a caged animal gnawing on the furniture whilst dreaming of the first day of golf. With the pleasant weather, our local course opened early, and like a terrier suddenly unleashed, out I dashed to revel in the open air and much needed exercise. I was in heaven, but not two weeks later the course unaccountably closed, and then our Governor shut down the rest. He was apparently worried that golfers would catch the Covid outside, not considering the health risks of breathing microbe laden indoor air all day long. I was back in hell, but providentially found a course open in Providence, which was my salvation until they closed their gates to all but Rhode Island residents. Pray for me.