The Man with the Swollen Arm

I wondered if Robert Jones ever got his shot.

I got my first dose of the COVID vaccine on Saturday, a year to the day after I walked out my office for the last time, as the coronavirus rolled into our lives like a toxic fogbank.

That was Friday the 13th and my floor was virtually empty, since most of the staff had taken advantage of our company’s offer to work from home.

I wasn’t wearing a mask back then, which seems unbelievable today, but I was washing my hands every five minutes.

Broadway was going dark, the St. Patrick’s Day parade had been cancelled, and the world was shutting down.

I had entertained some bizarre notion of going to my boxing class after work that day, but my auntie scared me out of it.

My gym recently reopened, but there are no classes yet and who knows when they’ll ever start up again. I miss all the people in that boxing class and I hope like hell they’re all healthy and safe.

I left the office that day thinking I’d be back in a month or so. I might have left a 2-liter bottle of Diet Coke under my desk, but I’m no in hurry to get it back.

My auntie helped me out again last week when she told me that the age requirement for the vaccine had been lowered and that I was now eligible.

I had hoped to go to someplace within walking distance, but all the local drug stores were out of the vaccine, so I wound up very reluctantly going to NYU Langone, where I had gotten my knee surgery three years ago.

Nothing personal, but hospitals in general make me nervous, even more so now with the pandemic, and this particular place gets me going because of the bad memories associated with my accident.

I arrived ridiculously early, of course, nervous as hell, and I guess that showed through my mask because the woman checking temperatures at the front door seemed to be in a playful mood.

Keeping Clear of the Joneses

“You have a fever,” she said after zapping my forehead.

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

I stared at her. I felt fine, but she was so convincing. So, I had wasted my time and energy getting down here and I’d have to reschedule?

“Go right through that door,” she said, letting me in on the joke.

I enjoy a good laugh, but I don’t think this was the time or place to be yanking someone’s chain.

Luckily, the other staffers were much more helpful. I pulled up a chair, got out my book, and prayed my weak kidneys wouldn’t force me to give up my seat and potentially miss my turn.

Of course, none of the happened and I was soon paired up with a doctor who rattled off a series of questions about my health.

I couldn’t help noticing that her computer screen bore the name “Robert Jones” instead of yours truly and I politely informed her that I was not that particular dude.

“You’re not?” she asked.

Oh, Christ, another comedian? If I want laughs I’ll watch reruns of Mr. Ed. Just give me my freaking shot and let me get the hell out of here.

But the doctor quickly realized her mistake.

“Thanks for catching that,” she said.

Sometimes it pays to be a nosy bastard.

The staff had all the vaccinated sit in a waiting area for 20 minutes to make sure there were no immediate problems.

Today I feel a little soreness around the injection spot on my left arm and let’s hope that’s the worst of it.

We have lost 2.7 million people to the coronavirus, with nearly 535,000 in the U.S. alone.

In the last year we have suffered through unimaginable losses, along with an intensely hateful presidential election, and an honest to God insurrection.

We’ve had dangerous, blatantly false arguments over wearing masks, and even today--this very morning--at my gym, one of the club employees had to boot out some imbecile who had tried to enter without wearing a mask.

No vaccine for ignorance, I’m afraid.

I’m scheduled to return for my second shot on April 3. Robert Jones is on his own.