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On this hot, sultry, typical South Texas afternoon in the latter days of June, a day when Cameron County hit 50 deaths, Texas passed 2,250 and the nation neared 125,000, I received a text from Diego, who has resided in Austin where for more than a decade he has been chasing his musical dream. The fateful news that we've been fearing may have hit home.

"Pretty sure I've got the virus."

I called him. He explained that from one day to the next he felt he had been hit by a train. He couldn't stand his body ached so much and his head was throbbing. There were also the telltale signs of a high fever and dry cough. Unlike the 30-something hipsters with whom he hangs, he has been staying with his girlfriend writing songs and recording music. She has severe asthma and he was avoiding to the best of his ability any behavior that might compromise her health.

After a short chat, I called my compadre Bob Rivard, the voice of San Antonio. He was the editor of the San Antonio Express/News for years and now operates the most read blog--The Rivard Report--in San Antonio. We became brothers in the late seventies at The Brownsville Herald. He was the best man at my first marriage and I was the best man at his only and surviving marriage. Until the last few weeks when grenades started exploding everywhere in Brownsville, he was the sole personal acquaintance who had contracted COVID-19.

"I was on the golf course when I noticed a scratchy throat," he recalled in a voice with a vibrancy that indicated he had recaptured his mojo. "The following morning I thought Joe Frazier had tagged me with the same left hook he placed on Muhammad Ali's chin in the 15th round of their first meeting. I was down for the count for the next three weeks and there are times I feel that I haven't recovered completely.

"My symptoms were no different than Diego's except I was hacking up thick globs on phlegm. I never had problems breathing and thank god. I saw a video of a patient being intubated and it was not a pretty process. With the exception of my doctor prescribing a Z-Pak to prevent a bacterial infection that might lead to pneumonia, I did nothing but sleep and sip on chicken soup for days. Both my sons tested positive, but they have been asymptomatic. Except for over-the-counter meds and staying hydrated, Diego is going to have to suck it up. Did he have a flu shot? No. It's not the season, but you can't discount that possibility. Un abrazo, 'mano."

Coincidentally, Karen, my step-daughter, was fearful that Coronavirus had infected her. She is in her fourth year of dental school at UT/San Antonio. She couldn't hold down any food as she fought diarrhea. A classmate, complaining of not feeling well, had tested positive earlier in the week. As she lay in bed alone and confused, several more classmates skipped classes due to illnesses. Her cousin took her for a test. She had resigned herself to a preordained diagnosis, but the result was negative. It was either a bug or food poisoning that had waylaid her. Diego has scheduled a test for tomorrow and I can only hope. I'm not too proud to pray, but I would be a hypocrite.

I next called Dr. Polyphemous Panglos. I remember vividly when he visited my house many years ago. Diego, two or three, hadn't had a bowel movement for ten days and was contorted in pain. Doc stuck his finger up my son's ass and he released the most satisfying shit of his short life. Doc is older than me and works non-stop at the two hospitals and at several clinics. Work--returning his patients back to health--reflects the missionary zeal that fulfills his spiritual commitment to mankind. I don't know what I'll do when he is no longer a phone call away.

"You need to have him go to ER?"

"This is only his first day of feeling ill."

"This is a lethal disease. Does he have insurance? Good. Better safe than sorry."

I alerted Diego to Doc's advice which scared him. He didn't want to accept that he was that sick even though he had never felt worse in his life. Doc's word is scripture to me, but after checking with subsequent sources and surfing Google, I discovered that I might have been precipitate in my counsel, but these are harrowing times and we are at the mercy of a cruel despot who defies common sense with his refusal to wear masks, to maintain social distancing and to avoid large crowds. To add gas to the fire, he wants to limit testing. The apocalyptic numbers threaten his reelection and he is counting on the Supreme Court to deny millions of health insurance in the middle of the pandemic. Satan showed more mercy to Job than this soulless fiend, who missed his calling as a Nazi escorting Jews into gas chambers, is extending to his fellow Americans. He stands in a pool of blood and he couldn't care less.

With Coronavirus and Trump turning the skies black with their thunder and lightning tempest, a variety of storms have befallen me. Besides Diego and Karen's health scares, my step-son, Lorca, slammed into the back of a vehicle causing $5,000 in damage to the family car and Mick suffered a concussion during football practice, which sidelined him for a week. Olivia has excellent automobile insurance to cover her son's accident, but she had no idea that she would need her health coverage a few days later.

"She took out the dogs for their evening stroll," I related to Estanislao Contreras over the cell. "I was showering when I heard her screaming. I exited the bathroom and she was in the bedroom with blood streaming down her face, her right arm hanging limply at her side and limping badly."

"What happened?"

"She was walking the dogs when a neighbor's cur began pursuing them. She started running when she lost her balance and fell flat on her face. She lost a chunk of flesh near the side of one eye, battered a shoulder, sprained an ankle and covered her knees and ankles in abrasions. I took her to the hospital where the doctor stitched the facial wound. She is going to need extensive therapy for the shoulder."

"I'm sorry to hear that, hombre."

"It was a real drag; she was excited about her birthday the next day. We were going to McAllen to wander the aisles at one of the bookstores and then relax with Mick over an expensive dinner. As much as I lament her injuries, I feel more anguish over her disappointment. One of the few things I do well is wine and dine someone and she was looking forward to our outing. I did buy her a card and flowers, but she was in too much pain to express her thanks other than summon sufficient strength for a wane smile."

"Fucking Trump!"

"You've got that right! Fucking Trump!"