Jabbed

Sorry, lost a few days. Just gone. Poof. 

Waded into the rest of Loudoun County Sunday for our vaccine. Past an indoor skydiving venue, a two-tiered driving range, past condos and apartments made out of ticky-tacky and organic, farm-raised, free-range sustainable grocery stores, a brewery or four, through roundabouts and past exit ramps, past the old Fairfax racecourse that’s now a golf course. Frankly, it’s probably a better golf course than a racecourse but we miss it just the same. Joey won his first race there, Ski Lift, by a nose. He should have worn the red cap. I rode my second career jump race there, at the point-to-point, on Student Dancer, won a few races there, a long, long time ago. 

The destination, the Dulles Town Center. A mall. I haven’t been to a mall in years. Didn’t plan on going again. Annie and I double mask, double check our forms and triple check the directions.

“Enter between the Cheesecake Factory and Sears.”

Two places I never thought I’d go near.                                 

There’s a line down the sidewalk. Six feet apart. Masks, all kinds, homemade, makeshift and ones that look designed by NASA. Volunteers, with hand-written name tags, stand at the corners, offer instructions and words of encouragement and an occasional replacement mask. 

Young and old. Short and tall. Every race imaginable. The Covid quilt.  

We fidget. With our phones, with our masks, with our nerves. The line starts to move and people hurry through the parking lot to catch up. We get stopped at the door. Wait another few minutes and then are allowed inside. 

Long and cavernous, the out-of-business Sears store couldn’t be a better venue. Caution tape and cones crisscross the space, part crime scene, part truck-driving license test center, we snake up and back, down and around until we’re called to a desk. We go together. Offer our information. “Here’s your card. Is all the information correct?” We nod. We’re off. 

Annie goes to B2. I go to E7. I make small talk with the shot giver. She’s worn out, forlorn, her tired eyes do all the talking. “How’s it going?” “Just giving shots.” I hope she’s at the end of her shift. “Which arm?” “Left, I guess.” The needle goes in and out, barely a sensation. I walk to the waiting area. “Four, five or Six. 15 minutes, your count.”

Annie meets me there. We find two chairs. Six feet apart. We sit and wait. 

J & J. One and done. 

For better or for worse.