Yesterday was my first day at the Y since we announced we were closing down to provide child care for the staff of local hospitals. Several of the team had spent the previous day and evening sanitizing everything a child would touch, from door knobs and tables to lockers and cubbies. Disinfected laundry baskets were lined up along the hall where coats and personal items could be stored safely. The wellness center was silent. It was otherworldly to see the treadmills and weight machines frozen in stillness at 10:00 on a Monday morning. We are a pretty tactile group. It was uncomfortable to greet one another without hugs and hand clasps. I grabbed a walkie talkie at the desk and clocked in.
We had our first change of plans. My assignment was to be in the Lifeguard chair while the kids played in the pool. Some glitches in the registration process kept people from signing up before Wednesday, so no kids in the Y, yet. Instead of changing into my red trunks and whistle, I reported to my boss for credentialing . Before anyone can have direct contact with the kids in a child care environment, she has to submit a complete background check. We sat down in her office (two meters apart) while she asked me lots of personal questions. At one point, I coughed, covering my mouth with my hand, and she reflexively passed me the bottle of sanitizer without even looking up from her monitor. Finally, it was time for a search of the national sex offender's database.
And my name is Bob Johnson.
Damn, there are a lot of nasty people out there with that name.
Good news: While several people have considered me a sexual disappointment, I have never been an offender in the legal sense. I got a printout to that effect and joined two colleagues for the short ride down Loudon Avenue to the the department of something or other where the state would record our fingerprints. On the ride, we shared stories. Our driver was supposed to be married last Saturday. She seemed to have a pretty good sense of humor about the whole thing, and I suggested that once the danger had passed, we could have her ceremony on the pool deck at the Y and instead of a broom, they could jump over the edge of the pool into the deep end. We laughed, which felt good.
"They understand that it isn't actually a computer virus, right?" Laughing in times of crisis; my bravado of choice.
My young colleague, another lifeguard and swimming teacher explained patiently that they could not take fingerprints if we could not touch anything.
OK, Boomer.
On the ride home, my head felt even fuzzier, and my stomach started to complain a little. It felt like I was getting car sick, in spite of the fact that our drive took about 6 minutes. By the time we got back to the Y, I was having trouble keeping on my feet, and leaned on a light pole while my the retching began.
Clearly, I would not be part of the days efforts to prepare for the children.
I told the boss I would be clocking out. Grabbed my lunch and thermos and left, asking the folks at the desk to have somebody sanitize the door where I'd touched it. I remembered reading Barbara Tuchman writing about plagues, back my European history classes. Managed to hold down my rising sense of the over-dramatic. Janey, the nurse on duty agreed with me that she hadn't heard about any stomach symptoms associated with CORVI-19, but that there was some kind of stomach thing going around. Just my luck.
Driving home, I prayed to make it to the house before the next spasm from my stomach, but a quick stop at a crosswalk sent it spinning. I managed to pull over into the parking lot of the rehab center, punch the flashers, and hop out before emptying myself out onto the grass by the curb.
"You all right, brother?" He asked like a man who had seen much worse; he asked like a stranger who cared.
"Just my luck," I said between spasms, "in the middle of a plague and I went and caught the wrong fucking bug."
He laughed hard, and I was grateful that I could still get a yuck out of a stranger, even as the last of my breakfast bid its farewell.
Back in the car. Shoes seemed clean. The cuffs on my pants were going to need to be pre-treated. Home to the birds. I emptied my pockets. Phone. Wallet. Name tag. Walkie-talkie. Shit. I put it in a baggie and drove back to the Y, hoping that there was nothing left inside me. Put the baggie on the mat at the front door, and asked the boss who greeted me to sanitize it all before putting it back into service.
Back home in bed, with my teeth in a jar and a glass of ginger ale at my side, I remembered the stranger on the street. What demons had he battled? How many people had judged and walked past him when he was in trouble? How many reasons did he have to avoid a puking white man in the middle of an outbreak that had already killed thousands of people all over the world? And yet he stopped. He offered gratuitous kindness. A samaritan on the road to the Y. An agent of Grace.
Thank you, brother. Stay well. Stay clean. I hope we meet again when my breath is better.
I owe you a hug.
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