213

After killing 900 in the Brownsville vicinity, 15,000 in Texas, 200,000 in the nation and close to a million in the world, the Grim Reaper may be pausing to catch his breath. How many corpses can we stack before they fall on us like the Twin Towers? But have no doubts. He will be back. He has unfinished business with Donald Trump. Trump has been laughing at the Grim Reaper.

"You can kill a million world-wide, but you can't touch me because I am the most powerful person in the universe," taunts Trump. "I spit in your face. I am the Chosen One. I defy all the rules in going mano-a-mano with you. I don't wear a mask. I don't social distance. I encourage mass crowds with me in the middle of the coughing and sneezing throngs. You will disappear and I will still be here."

All of us are suffering from cabin fever. Since Trump doesn't want to lead by example, we are left to our devices. We are all responsible for our decisions, but armed with masks, maintaining social distancing and avoiding large crowds, we have begun to crawl out of our holes and are venturing into the unknown, which, until the arrival of COVID, had been known to us.

Everything looks normal, but it isn't. But it is easy to fool ourselves. A month ago friends and acquaintances were dropping right and left, some for the final count, others stumbling back to their corners to catch their collective breaths. At this moment I don't know anyone who has died recently and I don't even know anyone who is sick. There is such a patina of normality that we have football back at all levels even though those in charge haven't followed Trump's example and filled the stadiums.

Am I setting myself up for an ambush? On the plus side, I had my flu and pneumonia shots. I never venture into the public without my mask. I keep my distance and you won't find me surrounded by anyone other than Olivia and Mick, but...

Today is Sunday. Two Thursdays ago Mick and I went to eat wings to watch the NFL opener. We sat in an outdoor patio safely distanced from other customers. Two nights later we went to Brownsville's best steak house. Olivia joined us. We sat in a breezeway by ourselves. On Wednesday Dante called me to meet him at the same wings joint. I can't resist his company. We took the normal precautions. Friday night Olivia and I ate dinner at a small restaurant. There was only one couple at a distant table. For those who are hunkering down at all costs because they are not fooled by this momentary lull, we are no better than Trump.

This Thursday is Mick's birthday party. We have made reservations at an Italian restaurant. There will be eight of us. all family. I haven't forgotten that not too long ago a family held a gathering. When the dust had settled, three brothers, one sister and one nephew died within a ten-day period. I'm filled with guilt that I have taken non-necessary chances. Besides the birthday party, there are no future plans. 

But that doesn't mean--I'm a stupid human being--that I won't succumb to Olivia suggesting a quiet dinner over a bottle of wine at a "safe" eatery, to Dante inviting me for a cold ones or Mick, whom I have difficulty refusing, insisting that we can't miss a NFL showdown over our favorite plate of wings.

No tests with quick results. No vaccines. No future with certainty. It's one day at a time in this struggle for survival that depends on strict discipline. And I am lacking in the "strict" department?

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

6

L ike a hound pointing to its game, the Spring Breaker followed his boner to his condo with the blond co-ed in tow. She had stepped up to the beer bong thrice and could barely walk. He led her into his room and stripped her of her thong as if he were peeling a banana. He was soon straddling her when he stopped an inch short of entering her shaved pussy. "I must confess something," he said. "What?" she slurred. "I have tested positive for HIV." "Have you tested positive for Coronavirus?" she asked. "No." "Then let's fuck, cowboy!!!" 
Read more

5

I was standing at the bar at Cobbleheads when I saw owner Joe Kenney walking past. I grabbed him by the bicep. "Pretty flabby for a guy from Phillly," I said. "Fuck you, Sully," snapped Joe before continuing with that goofy accent. "What do you want?" "I didn't get a chance to wish you Happy St. Patrick's Day! I'd pinch you on the butt since you're not wearing green, but you have a lousy lookin' ass. Let's toast the San Patricio Battalion." "A bunch of filthy traitors," spat Joe. "General Scott should have hung all the bastards instead of branding the majority of them." "You were in the Herald saying that Mexico and the United States had special ties as a result of these Irishmen switching sides in a war that Abraham Lincoln criticized as imperialism run amok." "It's all about business," confessed Joe. "I can't express my true sentiments about those Benedict Arnolds. I h...
Read more

1

My patio faces east. In the early afternoon the sun has embarked on its ancient descent toward the west and I relax on my lawn chair in the shade. I breathe deeply. My lungs are clear. Coronavirus has me contemplating life from a variety of angles. I am led to believe that those who suffer death from the disease suffocate. That doesn't sound like a pleasant exit to me. As a result of this grim reality, I have quit smoking dope. I don't want to weaken my lungs any more than 55 years of puffing on joints has wreaked on them. I have been retired for three years from the BISD after the superintendent threatened to fire me if I kept writing. I chose to keep writing. It is my spiritual calling. I had contributed 39 years to the school district and I was working for free. Retirement was a logical option. I don't miss the job, but I do miss my students, athletes and colleagues. I liken my present existence to floating down a lazy Hill Country river in an inner tube. Little did I kn...
Read more