French Fries

The snack bar at the Ojai Valley Athletic Club is not known for its vegan dishes nor for any self-imposed limitation on the saturated fat globules served up to its otherwise health-conscious members.

The Club recently began a Tuesday dinner soiree that continued its happy-go-lucky diet of mind-numbing weekly specials that featured burgers, fries and, just in case you burned too many calories in the lap pool, a hearty pile of macaroni and cheese.

This heart stopping road to perdition was sidetracked this past Tuesday with a surprise offering that included a garden salad and salmon.  Jackie brought this dietary turnabout to my attention and offered to treat me to a night out two days later. Jackie’s daughter, Sammy, rounded out the guest list with her youthful friends, Esmerelda and Sergio.

A warm, soft, east wind surrounded us as we emerged from the club and stepped onto the stone-age designed back patio. Three young women were participating in a mind-bending yoga class designed for those who seek new ways to challenge how nature has constructed the human body. I felt a bit guilty thinking about food while they huffed and puffed, so I decided to think of them as part of the evening’s entertainment.

Jackie had ordered our meals in advance. We retrieved them from the pickup window, got two glasses of chardonnay and sat down at the indestructible wrought iron table. Opening the Covid-induced ubiquitous cardboard box revealed a leafy salad that had been blessed with a few microscopic bits of salmon.

Having just met Esmerelda and Sergio, I restrained myself from complaining about the relative absence of fish and went to work on the salad. Sammy had mystically anticipated the non-caloric salad and had compensated for it by conjuring up two large tubs of fries; I attacked them with little regard to the needs of our dinner companions.

We filled the air with words that smoothed the raw edges caused by making a first-time contact with relative strangers. One’s physical appearance became less important as our conversation continued. We discovered some commonality in our backgrounds and, though unsaid, I was sure we shared similar political views.

Prompted by Jackie, the vaccine moved front and center. “Have you had your shots?”

“No.”

“Do you plan to get them?”

“No.”

“Any special reason?”

“I don’t want anything put in my body that’s likely to cause a problem. For example, I’ve heard that…”

And then Sergio launched into a litany of the negative effects suffered by the millions who have already embraced the vaccine…or for that matter, any vaccine.

The salad wilted and the fries congealed.

I found it useless to pursue the matter as I had no facts to contest his claims of the danger of government supported vaccines, nor of a miracle Asian compound that had been shown to prevent Covid from entering the body and alternatively cure anyone who already has the disease.

In retrospect, I wish I would have said that the Federal Trade Commission regularly sends warnings to companies advising them to stop making unsupportable claims about curing Covid…or the absence of any deaths due to the vaccine…or the rise in the incidence of the disease attacking younger people…or…

And then I thought, “What the hell, it’s a beautiful evening, I’m here with very nice people, I ate some delicious French fries…and I’ve had both my shots. They’ll figure it out.”

At least they’re not Republicans.

Countless Days

Happy days are here again
The skies above are clearer again
So let’s sing a song of cheer again
Happy days are here again

I was sitting on the couch enjoying a giant Wagamama bowl from Hip Vgn and watching CNN’s Chris Cuomo berate some poor guy whose only crime was that he mistakenly thought Chris would be in a more benevolent mood after months of venting his anger by stomping Republicans.

Eating on the couch has become an enjoyable habit even if the poor lighting and my declining night vision make me sometimes wonder what I’m eating. I must often wait until morning when the spots on my sweatshirt reveal what I enjoyed the night before.

Jackie was downing the last vestiges of her Ashram bowl and looking forward to another episode of the Netflix thriller, The Sinner, with Bill Pullman who does a good imitation of Peter Falk’s Columbo including the sloppy unwashed garb, minus the comedy.

Fixated on Cuomo’s ever tightening facial muscles, I was surprised when Jackie turned to me, flashed that devilishly cute smile and said, “It’s our anniversary today.”

Huh, what? I went into a catatonic state of guilt and quickly chronicled February events searching for something that I had forgotten. Had I missed an important one? Let’s see…no birthday, no first date, no wedding anniversary, not the flowerless Valentine’s Day that had been celebrated at the Torrey Pines Lodge.

“Our vaccination, sweetheart. It’s fourteen days since we got our second Pfizer shot at the Fairgrounds. We’re immune.”

I was relieved but surprised that I hadn’t thought of it earlier in the day. Counting days from one vaccination to another had become an annoying habit. Like a cult, our friends and relatives had joined in their own counting, discussed it at length and mused about what would be different in our lives once we were all aglow with the vaccine.

I had started the counting exercise when we made our appointment to get the first shot. I hoped I could avoid the dreaded virus while waiting for shot day to arrive; it would be a shame if I contracted Covid on the tail-end of the countdown. Better sooner than later, I inanely thought. To speed things up, I tried to make the days pass more quickly; the shortened winter daylight hours were a blessing; sleeping ten hours a day cut into the time for mental gymnastics.

Following the first shot I pondered its possible effects. Three days after the injection was I now 3/14 more immune than the day I got it? I even factored in Dr. Fauci’s daily reports; my mind became an unfathomable data depository. Just when I thought I had it figured out, Dr. Fauci unceremoniously altered his assumptions. The troubling announcement of new virus variants was too much; I decided to ignore them since differential equations have never been my strong point.

The day of our second shot dawned. We arrived at the Fairgrounds expecting large crowds and an appropriate acknowledgement of our two-week survival; unfortunately, we were disappointed to note the absence of any festive Fairground signs like, Welcome Back, Fred or Way to Go, Jackie. We accepted anonymity, got our booster shots and began the next countdown.

I continued the daily countdown to full immunity in a less frenzied manner. The presence of a full load of vaccine loosened our defenses. Hand washing declined from an hourly ritual to a more manageable interval. Masks were loosened from their usual blood-clotting state to a less painful fit.

I no longer worry schizophrenically about the lack of social distancing at Agave Maria or the Topa Topa Brewing Company, nor do I needlessly wonder why I must cover my face when I use the restroom while diners at the tables go unmasked. I’ve stopped moving to the opposite side of Montgomery Street when others are approaching me in what I had previously considered my private space.

I marvel that I have arrived at this point unscathed given my Perils of Pauline attitude that seemed to fly in the face of recommended safe practices. Friends have been cloistered while I have been more available. Trips have been limited only by our imagination. I have dared the virus to interfere with the help I have provided to others.

The liberating feeling seems to be catching on. A declining lack of seriousness permeates the town. The County reports that some vaccination appointment slots are going unfilled. Pfizer and Moderna seem to be successfully arm-wrestling new viruses to a draw.

Happy days are here again…countless ones, I hope.