I'd Leave If I Could

Virus

Part 26 of 30

A few years ago I had a life like this, traveling the country, camping, and roughing it. I thought that was the way to go, but, like always, my paranoia got the best of me and I decided to transition out of the more hectic lifestyle into the more sedate life of The Big City.

Of course Grandma’s place was out of the question, as it had been a house in shambles, completely rife with mold, other bacteria, smelly stuff, and rot. Then the City condemned the it and helped me (they insisted on it while still charging me) tear the place down and haul it to the landfill. And believe me, it was tough watching bulldozers cover the last of the place under the soil. The only revenge of the house against them was when one workman was scratched by a rusty nail and ended up losing a toe. You take small victories wherever you find them.

Between the landfill, then, and the Big City, there was that camping/roughing it period. And I should have stuck with it. Because if there’s the slightest trouble -- and say everything else is OK with your truck, camper, health insurance, issues getting your mail, knowing how to file taxes, etc. -- you can always pull up stakes and go somewhere else. In short, any little thing can go wrong and you’re stuck. Stuck? You’re screwed. I don’t know how people do it long-term, although I’ve seen a few who have; they’re just not worrywarts like me. O! if I could do it again, but the money’s all gone...

So now the Big City has to be the focus when it comes to dealing with the virus. We’re crammed in by the millions. I see people walk by my place everyday, people I’ve never seen before. And do they all look healthy? Not by a long shot. It’s painful that there’s so much traffic. At Grandma’s old place, way back when, it was at the edge of town there weren't 20 people walking by in a month. There’s 20 or more an hour in the Big City. But where they’re going? I don’t know. I keep thinking I should follow them and find out. But I’m afraid they’d notice and I’d end up with house guests, which would be certain death.

When I was scrounging for aluminum cans a couple years ago I met a guy and talked to him. He invited me on his porch to visit and get some cans and so I did. Then he told me, with trepidation, never step on his property unless he was there and invited me. Because his son is totally crazy and would kill me just-like-that. I still drive by that guy’s house and wonder about his son. Is he watching, is he waiting? Big deal, his loss! The chances that I’d stop there now even if the dad WERE home are zero. I don’t know what the son looks like, but he about has to be huge and ugly.

OK then, here I sit, with all the dangers of the Big City and nowhere to go. Say the virus breaks out in full force: I’m dead. But say it doesn’t, say we become the safest place in the world. Then everyone will want to live here, including those with the faintest taint, and then -- because of our great success -- the virus will return and we'll end up dead.

The Paranoia Debate

Paranoia

Part 6 of 30

Please forgive a little diversion into my debate notes from 7th grade. They gave us our assignment and we went off to do the research. Then the third day of class I was the debate foreman for the affirmative of this proposition: "Exposure of anything to the light of day and the careful study of those qualified to judge, not swayed by prejudice or simply a mind already made up, is among life's greatest antiseptics and stimulants toward truth, hereby spurred on." I'll never forget it. We wiped out the other team, and to this day the question to me is irrefutable. It was such a moment, really, and everyone was so blown away that we spent the rest of the semester arguing about the merits of particular baked goods. And brownies won!

Along those same lines, I used to hear the great beloved song, “Count Your Blessings,:which was a decent song that also had a lot to do with your attitude. Because no matter how bad things are -- there are always great antiseptics and stimulants, and, yes, you can accomplish anything, and that's the truth! But enough about debate, now to real life...

The setting here is a town dump, which allowed public access. And our parents didn't care if we played there, killing rats, blowing up aerosol cans, anything. It was great. Among the personnel there, let’s see, Edgar was the first manager, then a guy named Stubby took over, then a guy named Harmon. That’s when I left home. Anyway, we did go to the dump to play, shoot rats with bows and arrows and watch them bleed and seek out the quarters where the poorer rats go, their holes.

I suppose some of my bad luck is karma from those days, because I couldn’t stifle my killer instincts, thinking it was so fun. I caught a piece of the karma even as a kid, cutting myself on a tin can and needing shots. Mom asked WTF happened, and what could I say but the truth? We were throwing bricks through old TVs and watching them explode. But I was too close to this one -- a Philco -- and the blast carried me 40 feet through the air. Quite a flight, too. Half hour later I landed in some rubbish and sliced my finger pretty bad. I went through the rubbish and found an old chunk of cotton, a little sticky with something, and bandaged it good enough to survive the walk home. And so forth, I threw myself on Mom's mercy, she sewed it up, and I went to bed and had dreams and nightmares, most of them in quick succession, some of them on a seemingly endless hold while they threaded the projector, a type you couldn’t get parts for today.

So what happened next? I can’t remember what just happened! Ever since that time, my memory has been very faulty. I’m hoping to find the cure someday but have had great difficulty … My memory’s so bad … I have vast experience with paranoia ... I hope they can cure me. Something happened. Whatever it was is, what was it I said? Anyway, I believe there’s a whole slate of enemies, see? Out to get me, see? My life was essentially ruined, somehow. People from the old days who see me also wonder what happened. I’m always like, “What are you talking about? Nothing happened to me.” Then I fall asleep and wake up crying out. It’s a bastard. Whatever I said. Somethings out there, just biding its time, somewhere nearby, waiting to get me.

They took me to a doctor. His favorite word was “Interesting.” He'd put the listening thing up to my chest and say “interesting,” and so forth. I just lost my train of thought again. And this might be too much a downer. I’m fearful it is. It really gets to me. Look at my hand, that’s some shaking, huh?

Really, though, that’s nothing. I could shake it twice as fast if I needed to, and I just might...