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My Son Josh

 The Covid vaccine spot down the road has become a House of Horrors; there is a tall, thick curtain, and screams drift down past the southern border of the velvet. Screams of small babies.


The Covid people have tried to disguise the screams with a jumpy soundtrack; you hear Pitbull, you hear Kesha. It's going down!!! I'm yelling TIMBER!!!!! You betta move....you betta dance..... But the Kesha beats don't really fool anyone. This is like using a single square of air freshener to try to combat the remnants from a puddle of vomit.

My son is shrewd, and he can sense right away that this isn't a fun trip. Also, I don't like to sugar-coat, so I whisper: "Our next half hour might be miserable. At the best, it will be tedious. Use the force, Young Jedi....." My husband has a different approach, which is to look for the silver lining. "Kesha!" he shouts. And he begins to dance.

The actual climax is worse than I anticipated; my son has a runny nose, and this requires extra paperwork. The nurse hints darkly that the Covid shot could prolong the nose-runniness period. Don't we want to retreat--strap our screaming child back into his carseat--and repeat this process yet again in a week, a month? Don't we want to wait in more lines? I feel my blood pressure climbing. "Give him the fucking shot," is what I don't say. "Thank you so much," I murmur, soberly. "We will go ahead with the vaccine."

Throughout this process, my child is eyeing needles, Band-Aids, bottles of rubbing alcohol. His fury is mounting.

I'm just -- I'm ready for the year 2039.....
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