The Last Time

Get my first shot today.  Have to drive half an hour northwest from home, and the oil in the car is just about to be completely lifeless (at least according to the car), so I'm freaking out that my car will break down (because of the bad oil, but also because of other things) on the way there or on the way back.  But while I am paranoid that this very important event -- this might be one of the signature moments and days of my life, especially when it comes to, you know, my life -- I am looking forward to it.  This represents my punching a hole through the dirt that has buried me for over a year.  I can not only see the light at the end of the tunnel, I can now feel the warmth of the sun that will greet me at the end of it.  Provided I actually get up there in one piece, of course.

But just to make completely sure I test negative for COVID-19, and for old time's sake, I went back to the free testing clinic yesterday, one final time before I am forever defiled by the vaccine that will save my life.  You know, I'll tell you what: At first I hated this place because I preferred to be tested in a clinic, but people who actually knew what they were doing, like I had done, oh, three or four times.  This was the test where they shoved a big fat Q-tip up my nostril and twirled it there until you let out a heaping cough which, if you were positive for the coronavirus, would be a very, very bad thing to do.  It was the most precise test for COVID administered by professionals.  I would not want anything less.

But then they shortened their hours, and so I could no longer walk in and get these tests, and I was upset.  I had to lower my expectations and schlep on over to this place, in what used to be an event center, right next to a Chinese restaurant, and I would have to spit and spit and spit until I filled a line.  I still remember doing it the first time and being bleepin' stuck there for half an hour because, according to the helper, I had "frothy spit."

I had the same frothy spit this time, which may have been a consequence of eating Chipotle.  It wasn't half an hour after that disaster of a first time, but I wanted to get home to set myself up for my test scoring job (which, by the way, ended when we reported to start our evening only to be told there were no more tests to score; out of the projected 20 days allotted to the project, we worked only nine -- and we didn't work between last Thursday and Wednesday), so I was as frustrated at producing a sample as I was that first time.

And you know what?  I'll miss it.  I'll miss everything -- going there about once a week, seeing the people (probably temps, 18-year-olds sent to this place by a temp agency) donned in masks and face shields ask you, "Did you eat, drink, smoke or chew gum in the last 30 minutes?" the pull of the bottom of my mask to tuck that vial in, spinning that vial as I expectorate just because I would be too fidgety if I just held the thing, having to log into the testing company a second time because my phone timed out from spitting too long, shaking the sample with the turquoise preservative which was in a cap you had to twist into the vial in order to unlock it (which you would then see dripping into your spit, which you then would have to shake in order to mix the two together, which meant I had to put on my gloves because all of that was hard to do without gloves), tossing the package the vial came in in the big gray trash can with the black liner, throwing my sample in the bag, putting my hand under the sanitizer stand right by the exit, and leaving.  That ritual became a way to ground myself.  And every time I got an e-mail from that company saying it's been received, I would later (sometimes less than a day, sometimes closer to two, which would render the result kind of useless) get another e-mail, these subsequent e-mails awash in blue, saying my test was negative.  And that would justify me going all the way out to this abandoned event space and spending between ten and 30 minutes spitting.  Plus, the more negatives I got, the less and less fearful I was about walking into an indoor space where someone who has the virus would be testing him- or herself to see if he or she is in fact positive.

I still would have preferred a nursing assistant jabbing a cotton swab up my noise.  But the bottom line was I was proactive in proving to myself and to the world that I continually was negative, that I was doing the right thing in physically distancing myself from others as much as possible, that I was heeding the advice of the state government to wear masks ... that I was a good person.  I don't think going to get tested there was like a drug, but maybe.  I know that when I get the negative e-mail, I breathe a sigh of relief and then I think to myself that I am right in doing what I do ... and I go back there a week later.  To maintain or to get more positive feedback, or both.

Now, getting the vaccine would not result in a positive test.  Furthermore, it's possible to come down with the coronavirus even after you have received the vaccine, but assuming I nor any of the stripper whores I'm going to see in the next five weeks (because I'm going to start sowing my wild oats again) aren't being too reckless, I am going to assume that I will test negative because of the vaccine for at least the duration of the efficacy of the shots.  So, there's no need to go back there, at least till the winter if COVID-19 is making a comeback.  And that possibly means I have done this type of testing for the last time in my life.  It only started about three months ago, and yet it's kind of marked an important stage of my life.  How ... curious.