Skip to main content

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.....
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...
Post a Comment
Read more