Nick Vonk, The Day Muffy and I Got Vaccinated

THE DAY MUFFY AND I GOT VACCINATED

NICK VONK

At around the one-year mark in the pandemic, in late February and early March, there were a lot of difficult conversations being had about vaccinations—who should get them, who shouldn’t, and what kind of people were skipping the line. The Philly Fighting Covid story had just surfaced a few weeks prior. I didn’t know it at the time, but my roommate had gotten his first shot two weeks before me—he didn’t tell anyone because he was afraid of the backlash even though he was eligible because of a heart condition.

A couple nights before I got the first shot, I saw the Instagram stories of some friends saying that the Philadelphia Convention Center was accepting walk-ins. That’s when the serious, personal conversations began: all of a sudden, it wasn’t theoretical anymore.

I called around looking for information and advice. Allison and I were at my parents’ house in Upstate New York—we had to make the decision whether or not to take the three hour drive down, so I called a friend who had gotten the shot the day before; she told me that the lines were short, that doses were being wasted. I called another friend, who had gotten the shot earlier that day, and they talked me through the process from getting in line to walking out the door. I talked to my parents, I talked to Allison, and I decided to go. Allison told me that she’d stay behind; it was happening too fast, and we were both too nervous. We’d all been waiting so long for this moment that I guess we didn’t consider what it’d be like when it got here; the light at the end of the tunnel suddenly

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felt a lot closer, within reach. We decided to stop rushing, to drive tomorrow instead, and that’s when I gave Muffy a call.

“Hey, baby!” she answered like I had just knocked on her front door unexpectedly, like she was ready to set an extra place at the dinner table.

One thing that gets me about Muffy is how she always shows up with a smile first. If the conversation gets serious after that, if there’s pain to talk through, then we’ll get to it, but she’s always one to make an entrance, and she knows how powerful a warm greeting can be.

We chatted, which helped me calm down; my decision wasn’t backed by confidence, didn’t feel real until I asked her, “What are you doing tomorrow? Allison and I are going to the Convention Center tomorrow to get our first vaccine shots. Do you wanna come with us?”

“OK!”

There was no going back now.

By the time Allison and I woke up on March 18th, Muffy had already gotten in line. She called to ask where we were—maybe I could have been clearer about the timing… my fault! I had to go to a Zoom class at 11:00am, and we were planning to rush out from there. I have absolutely no recollection of that class, but I don’t think it was much more

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productive for me than if I had been slipped into a straitjacket, bolted down in the center of an empty room with a loud clock in front of me, and told to keep counting until it hit 12:20pm. I got let out early, and we bolted.

It was raining. I remember that it was raining because I remember looking up at the rain and thinking, I should remember that it’s raining on this day. Everything felt important. Muffy told us how to find the entrance—the line was short. At the first checkpoint, they asked us questions in a way that made it seem like they weren’t even interested in hearing the answers. There was a table set up before one of the pods: a set of four stations manned by FEMA personnel, mostly empty. The man checking us in was from California, and he couldn’t have been much older than myself and Allison. He asked the same questions that they asked at the first checkpoint, and he typed in our answers, then he pointed us to a table. The man there put the first stickers on our cards, alcohol swabbed us—

We got our first shots of the Pfizer Covid-19 vaccine.

While we waited the 15 minutes to check for an allergic reaction, I asked a man passing by who looked like he worked at the clinic if there was anything else we had to do or if we were okay to leave.

He said, “Did you turn green?”

“No.”

“Did you grow an extra thumb?”

“Nope.”

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He turned to Allison. “Did he cry a little when the shot went in?”

“Yes,” she laughed.

“No! But I did pee a little…” I said as he walked away.

We got stickers on the way out, and I called Muffy to tell her that we were done. She said she was on her way; we planned to get lunch at Reading Terminal Market.

Another friend of mine came with us. We lost him at check-in and didn’t see him again until after we got outside. My friend and I look pretty similar—tall, straight, white men. We had heard about the walk-in clinic from the same friends, so we decided that we’d all go together. He and Allison went into the market together to grab food while I waited for Muffy outside. By the time we parked, they had already eaten, so we went in for our own.

Muffy had been telling me about a dessert called pig ears: filo dough with cinnamon and sugar, her favorite. They didn’t have any today, but we moved on to the deli and got some pastrami Reubens and Dr. Brown’s black cherry sodas. She’d never had that kind of soda before, and I was happy to show her something that I’d enjoyed for years, but of course, if you know Muffy, I wasn’t going to walk away without learning something myself. I’m used to just ordering, waiting quietly as far as I can from the counter but still within hearing distance, and leaving without checking what’s in the bag. Not this time. Muffy asked them to keep the fat cap on the pastrami for extra flavor, and the two of us stayed right up at the front, chatting with the cooks while they made the food. A big part of the price of a restaurant meal is the atmosphere. That day, like usual, Muffy was the atmosphere.

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When we got our food, we thanked the guys at the counter again and went to go find my friend and Allison. Muffy gave them both a great, big Muffy hug. Allison was ready for the love, but I don’t think he was expecting such a warm greeting, or maybe he just wasn’t expecting Muffy. I remember being nervous about the moment before it happened, thinking, as we passed hip to hip through the crowd of faces, that he wouldn’t know our context, that we’d have to define our friendship for it to make sense to him. A few weeks prior, on Valentine’s Day, Muffy helped me pick out roses and chocolate-covered strawberries for Allison. Muffy charmed the cashier ringing us up, of course, and as we bumped elbows in laughter, she described us as classmates. My friend and I know each other from film classes, but Muffy and I go to a different school. I was worried, too, that my friend’s potential confusion would reflect back on me through Muffy’s eyes, that it’d be a reminder of how different we look on the surface. When she gave him a big hug, she brought me back to the reality that we both show up for one another, regardless of anyone else. I wanted him to hear her voice the way I heard it.

We took our food to Muffy’s car and piled in. As her music started playing, I looked in the rearview. I don’t think it helped put him at ease, but we got into it, dancing in our seats, and we all loosened up. My friend asked to get let out first. No shade, but that’s when the car really started bumping for the three of us—we had our own little club in that bright red Jeep, and of course, who brought the atmosphere? Muffy dropped us off in front of my apartment, and we said our goodbyes; she honked another goodbye as she drove away—always a warm goodbye. I dug into my pastrami Reuben with the fat cap and the Dr. Brown’s black cherry soda.

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