Tales From the Quarter

St. John the Baptist Parish

PRESENTED BY

OCTOBER 14-16, 2022

A SMOKIN GOOD TIME RETURNS ’

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The Thin Red Line

Iwas no longer Teflon Mary. I had crossed the line and was now Typhoid Mary.

There we were, cruising along, feeling like we’d traveled past the danger after so many close calls, accidents, and poor judgments. Finally, we felt safer, like we had distanced ourselves from the relentless attacks. We were on cruise control, when a precautionary glance into the rearview mirror let us know it wasn’t over. There we were—jacked by the Covid Cootie Monster.

For well over two years, I (Husband included) have been brushing past potential danger, but with eyes wide open, face fully and tightly masked, and packin’ a can of Lysol. I poured over enough data to qualify as an epidemiologist. My conversational vocabulary increased with words and terms I had never uttered before: viral load, immunocompromised, variant, monoclonal, incubation, and intubation. And oh the oxymorons: social distancing, flatten the curve, virtual hugs. And hats off to the WHO for juggling music and the health needs of the world.

I felt my sincere interest and concern over this contagion and my deep affection for masking would spare me. But my adherence to masking, which I believe was and still is the best defense, began to wane. And damn it, I actually look younger with a mask and saved a ton on sunscreen as half my face was covered. I had mastered great eye contact and learned to emote with my eyes and the raising of my brows. I thought maybe I had honed some skills worthy of auditions for local theater. Just give me a can of Lysol, and I could make an entrance in a cloud of disinfectant.

The vaccine—the holy grail—was created and manufactured in record time (in my humble opinion), and I was proud and delighted to take my four shots. I was going for a record for most nasal swab tests taken. The drive-up testing site run by the National Guard became a regular thing for hubby and I—they greeted us by name when we drove up. I could cram a Q-tip swab up my nose in my sleep if need be, and not flinch. I know, weird shit to be proud of.

“Why so many tests?” folks would ask. Well, Husband and I both discovered how fun it was to volunteer with food distributions. Sure it was helpful to folks in need but, if being honest, we got so much more from it. We made many friends, and it was a fabulous way to socialize (especially back during lock down) and be helpful; however, work required working in close proximity to others, so even with strict masking, it just seemed logical to test often. An outbreak could shut down a food site.

Okay, you get it—I enthusiastically, almost patriotically, embraced Covid protocol. And I will admit that when it got stupidly polarizingly politicized, I wore my mask and tested with a rebellious righteousness. But as we all know, masks only work when you wear ‘em. Think condom: if not properly worn, then—well you know what can happen. And I let my guard down more often than I should have. Same went and still goes for so many, many very conscientious folks. Just take Jazz Fest, for example.

Jazz Festers are ultimately one of the best crowds to be in. Some years back, my friend Gallivan said of the out-of-town festers as they poured into NOLA: “The collective IQ of our city just went up.” But despite the “cool” and the appreciation shown at this creative festival, not to mention the monies lavished upon us by locals and visitors alike, we were also showered with a whole bunch of airborne cooties. And lord knows I was in that number of unmasked festers. How I escaped that one was dumb luck.

And I tried my luck again and again, like being seated in the Saenger with 2,600 other Hamilton enthusiasts. Once more— luck. I had so many close calls with those who tested Covid-positive during the past two plus years—and again, I was always unscathed. I was about to turn myself in to Tulane for any studies they might be doing on Covid immunities.

Around this time, despite my uncanny good luck, I started masking more and more. The numbers were going up and up. It seemed like most folks I knew were getting it, and for some, a second time. Of course, these people were vaccinated and boosted but the vaccine doesn’t give you superpowers. The vaccine is designed to keep you alive in the event you become infected. It is a miracle drug, in my opinion—one that saves lives and lessens pain and suffering. It never claimed to make you bullet proof or noncontagious. But every single day, I hear a well intentioned, seemingly smart person try and put my mind at ease when they walk into my place of employment without a mask (optional) with the, “Oh! I am double boosted.” We, at work, have chosen to wear masks since day one and never for a moment lifted this voluntary protocol for ourselves. And thank god, because I can silently mouth behind the privacy of my KN95, “You dumb fucker.”

Call me a hypocrite—I wouldn’t blame you. I fuss at myself for letting my guard— and my mask—down. I believe this is how I got run over by the Cootie Monster, but the vaccines and the Paxlovid (a 5-day treatment) have saved my grateful ass. Today is July 22, 2022, and we are currently in a 6th surge—enhanced, I guess, by the new variants. When this goes to press, perhaps the situation will have improved. And by the time this column is being read by you in October, maybe you can let your guard down. But baby, I am gonna keep my eye on the rearview mirror.