Historical September–October 2020 article. Dates, prices, services and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.
I think it’s safe to call 2020. There’s no need for recounts, heartfelt eulogies, or top ten lists. Let’s pull the plug, plunge the dagger, and listen to the bariatric lady clear her pipes.
In the words of an ancient British statesman, ‘Depart I say; and let us have done with you.
In the name of God, go! And don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out!’ The year has unfolded like a Charles Dickens novel.
I ate my Christmas dinner, went to bed, and woke up Scrooged.
Now my dreams are haunted by the Ghosts of COVID Past, Present and Future.
When the clock strikes 1:00am, the friendly Ghost of COVID Past, transports me back to the cafeteria at work.
I giggle with excitement when I see the Build Your Own Salad Bar. ‘Look, over there!’ I cry in amazement.’ There’s the guy who sticks his nose in the soup tin to give it a whiff.’ The ghost reminds me, the clock is ticking, so I bare hand a lemon wedge for my tea.
The checkout person weighs my salad, and sees no need to put their thumb on the scale.
I watch people dance gaily, amongst the condiments, before I’m jolted back to reality.
The clock strikes 2:00am, and I hear the nagging voice of the Ghost of COVID Present. ‘Come on, get up! Wash your hands, take your temperature, grab a mask, and keep your distance.’ We go back to the cafeteria, but this time, I’m standing in the salad line holding a cardboard tray.
The line keeps moving forward, with signs reminding you, ‘Four Toppings Only.’ I arrive at the Plexiglas window, and the person in the hazmat suit asks for my toppings. Communication is garbled between, mask, plastic, and face shield; therefore, my toppings come out all wrong.
I start to complain, but the Salad Reaper points a long, slender tong at the sign; ‘Four Toppings Only.’ I toss and turn in bed, waiting for 3:00am. It’s not the beets from the salad that keep me awake; I fear the Ghost of COVID Future the most.
I get up before the alarm, and go out to meet the apparition.
It takes me to a desolate place, I barely recognize. It’s the cafeteria, but the grill is closed, the pizza station is boarded up, and all that’s left are prepackaged items with questionable expiration dates.
The Spirit points to an egg salad sandwich, indicating my time is up.
I swipe my card through the card reader, and implore, ‘Spirit, are these shadows of things that will be, or could be?’ It shrugs, as if to say, ‘That’s up to you.’ I always wake up in a cold sweat.
I run to the window, and throw it open wide, to make sure the sun has come up.
In the street a man is hustling by. ‘Excuse me, my fine fellow.’ I shout out. ‘What day is today?’ He looks up and replies, ‘Why, it’s a brand new day sir.’ I chuckle to myself, and say, ‘What an intelligent man.’ What’s your name?’ I inquire.
He answers back, ‘It’s Dr. Tiny Tony Fauci. God bless us, every one.’
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, September–October 2020.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times2020_09.pdf, printed page(s) 4; PDF page(s) 4.
