The Puck
The United States reached 10 million cases in the third week of November.
We hit a quarter million deaths just before Thanksgiving.
It was about to get far worse, because there was no chance most Americans were going to skip or radically adjust the parameters of the two biggest family holidays of the year. We insisted on observing Memorial Day, a 4th of July sans fireworks, and Labor Day, we managed a slightly abbreviated form of contact-less Halloween, but we certainly weren’t going to downplay Indigenous Genocide Day or Baby Jesus Day. Our incessant need to mark the calendar and our inability to delay self-gratification meant a lot more people were going to die. That Christmas-New Year season was going to be a dark one, for all the expected reasons, and as we came to know, a few new ones.
35 states ordered new statewide mask mandates, punishable by law. The incoming Biden administration was rumored to be mulling over a nationwide mask mandate. New lockdowns were initiated in Oregon, New York, Maryland, and Minnesota. In California, the daily positive case average hit nearly 8,000, a 90% increase from two weeks prior, as well as a 36% increase in hospital admissions and a 37% increase in ICU admissions. Then we hit the milestone number of one million cases.
Governor Newsom ‘pulled the emergency break’ and put 94% of Californian counties back in the dreaded purple tier on the roadmap to reopening and recovery. It mattered little to a majority of Californians, many of had adopted the habit of pretesting to attend gatherings so that they could skip wearing a mask or keep socially distanced. A foolish logic, as false negative results, or ‘early’ negatives, were easily achieved if a person’s viral infection hadn’t reproduced enough copies of itself yet to measure adequately, and there was always the chance a person could be infected between receiving their test result and the time of their gathering. There were no shortcuts. The lack of discipline continued to reign.
Locally in my microcosm of the world, our numbers weren’t bad per se; in that same third week of November, we had 255 active Covid cases within the county, 13 hospitalizations and 5 cases in the ICU, not horrific ratings for a county of 450,000 residents, yet the positivity metrics were still enough for our province to be included in the purple tier.
Americans were being eaten alive by the bug and we had only ourselves to blame. I wanted to believe it was because we were as sharp as a bag of wet rocks about the perils of epidemiology, but I sadly could not attribute it to ignorance, not after all the litanies we’d been subject to over the year from all news sources. We were choosing that fate. We knew the dangers. We just didn’t care. We were far more detached from reality than I ever dreamed, and it was so difficult to accept that, because I can dream far and fucking wide.
A study published by Science Magazine showed further corroboration on Covid’s tendency to rally up too much antibody activity, resulting in system-wide overkill. Basically, the novel coronavirus killed some folks, men in particular, because of amped-up friendly fire; the antibodies created to fight the Covid bug disabled interferons, those key immuno proteins essential for recoveries. It was rare. Only a portion of folks with life-threatening pneumonia had those super-duper ‘autoantibodies.’ Nonetheless, it seemed to be further proof the virus was hyper evolved to survive. Cross-mutations and evolved mutations were a virtual guarantee.
The second vaccine trial completed from Moderna published preliminary results that week showing a 94.5% rate of effectiveness in preventing infection from Covid. The initial vaccine data from Pfizer, BioNTech, and Moderna showed far more promise than scientists estimated, and the AstraZeneca vaccine being developed at the University of Oxford was also making headway, though that particular vaccine ended up having more concerning side effects.
The New York Times reported a study led by a number of experts in the field, including immunologists from the University of Toronto and the La Jolla Institute of Immunology, that indicated immunity to the novel coronavirus might last a lot longer than previously estimated, perhaps as long as years or even decades. Apparently blood samples taken from people infected early on in the pandemic eight months prior, compared to current samples, showed most samples retained enough immune cells in their systems to prevent re-infections. That was good news, if it meant folks could rely on memory cells in their bodies to stave off new attacks from Covid, rather than accept the potential necessity of repeated annual vaccinations.
It spoke to that same framework we humans usually thought of when we got sick – getting through that first sketchy phase of the onset of illness was the trick. Then the body does its usual thing…for most, not all…in remembering the disease and building up evolved immunity to it. That’s for average lucky people, let’s not forget. The 250,000 dead did not get the chance to build up immunity. The reason it was not like the flu or the common cold is because it was new and it had an evolved ability to affect individuals at the genetic level. It could’ve easily panned out in manifesting every epidemiologist’s nightmare, a super bug with a 75% percent or greater mortality rate, and then we really would have had a Stephen King kind of world’s end scenario. It was too close for comfort, and the reality was, more virulent bugs were coming at some point, especially if we kept trashing the natural world, which we are, which means they are inevitable.
Black people were disproportionately affected by Covid-19 for all the reasons we’ve been over, and surveys suggested they were more hesitant about the prospect of vaccines than most other American ethnic groups. There’s little question why that was, given the history of medical abuses BIPOC folks endured in the United States over the last two centuries, and their too frequent roles as guinea pigs in a field historically overseen by the Anglo-Euro ruling class.
Both Pfizer and Moderna were said to have had trouble in attracting Black participants in their trials. Having diversity in volunteers was essential in identifying potential side effects that might affect certain ethnic genetic lines differently than others. But ya can’t blame ‘em. I’d be wary too if I had the history they had, when it came to class-based, scientific trial and error. I’d probably let whiteboys do the walking in any case, if I could hold out and quarantine safely until things shook out as they may, which naturally wasn’t all that often for them, as our marginalized classes tend to be the folks with essential, health care-consumer-food chain positions.
The expected internet paranoia ramped itself up as soon as the first announcement from Pfizer and BioNTech dropped. The most popular conspiracy theories seemed to include Bill Gates’ master plan to microchip us all and the idea that the vaccine would somehow alter our DNA and mutate us into…something. Much as it might’ve dejected some nerd fantasy boys to learn, injecting RNA into a person doesn’t do jack shit to their DNA. Every cell in our bodies contains RNA. There weren’t gonna be any X-Men stylish mutations, nor less stylish Kuato-Total Recall mutations forthcoming.
I went and got my first antibody test that week. I wanted a little peace of mind. The test result was negative. Either I managed to avoid infection to date, or my antibody count from a long-passed infection was too low to detect. Perhaps my memory T-cells were enough to ward off new viral exposures. I believed, statistically, I was exposed a number of times over the latter nine months of 2020.* Or perhaps I was indeed still a Covid virgin, and I needed to continue exercising extreme caution until I was administered a vaccine. A positive antibody result wouldn’t have affected my adherence to protocols one iota. It would not have been a get out of jail free card.
*Editor’s Note: This turned out to be inaccurate, as the author did not get his first verifiable case of Covid until much later in the game, not until October of 2023, in fact, during a Pretenders concert at a roadhouse in the high desert…more on that later.
Covid was going to mow a lot of lawns before it was done. I couldn’t imagine what New Year’s Eve 2021 was going to feel like, whether it would be a golden sight for sore eyes and a new beginning, an emergence out of one of the darkest years in American history, or whether it would signal another six to twelve months of pain and suffering. Little did I know what was in the offing.
On the day I penned this entry, Governor Newsom ordered 94% of Californians in 41 different counties into a state curfew, imposing another month-long, stay-at-home order between the hours of 10 pm and 5 am unless performing essential duties. He rationalized the order by pinpointing the contact trace spread from late night social activities like bars and parties and gatherings, resulting in folks’ reduced inhibitions to wear masks or stay socially distanced. In transparent terms, he meant that Californian DGAF attitudes came out more at night.
Outside my window that same day, I heard my neighbors wanking up a storm spewing whataboutisms and laments about Thanksgiving restrictions, and all the pandemic protocols we poor, brainwashed, Covid-fearful sheep had bent over to take from our Big Brother government. The week before, Newsom shut down indoor dining, church services, and a good number of non-essential businesses. Mayor Garcetti in Los Angeles imposed a 10 pm to 6 am curfew, with the caveat that if the 4,500 case per day threshold was breached, a renewed SIP order would be instituted. It didn’t help that Newsom broke recommended protocols himself when he attended a lobbyist’s birthday celebration at a posh restaurant in Napa Valley. He endured a firestorm of double standard slags for that, rightfully so. We’re all human. I’d taken a handful of unnecessary risks myself, but if I were in public office, I’d be much less inclined to do so.
Three days passed. The number of Covid cases in the United States swelled well past 12 million. Daily reported cases neared 200,000 a day. 255,000 Americans were dead. Every state in the union with the exceptions of Hawaii, Vermont, and Maine were considered high risk zones for transmission. Nationwide hospitalizations stood at 83,227. It. Was. Brutal. Thanksgiving was about to send us over another yawing edge. It wasn’t fair to frontline responders, not at all. They were getting screwed royally, all because we wouldn’t wear masks.
I was tired of seeing idiots using masks as chin-straps, proclaiming in their passive aggressive fashion they were only donning a mask because of social stigma and the right to access protocol-bound establishments they wanted to patronize, rather than exercising actual concern for their fellow citizens, unknowing or uncaring that haphazard mask wearing revealed a petulant, adolescent mentality that screamed I’m a Punk Ass Bitch.
I was tired of not eating out day after day, and seeing indifferent indoor diners as I passed by restaurants. A new survey published by One Fair Wage, a national advocacy coalition formed to contest ongoing sub-minimal wages across the country, found that many of those said diners who chose to flaunt protocols were exhibiting their hubris in decidedly awful fashions. “Maskual harassment” became a thing, where diners requested the server to remove their mask to determine how much they ought to be tipped. According to the study, more than 80% of food industry workers saw a decline in tips and 40% of those surveyed saw a rise in sexual harassment. Not only were Covid deniers patronizing a service they ought to have postponed during a pandemic, they were treating the staff serving them like shit and risking their lives to boot.
A few months prior, the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reported people who’d tested positive for Covid-19 were twice as likely to have dined out two weeks before reporting symptoms. Almost invariably, the most prevalent activity in which Covid transmission occurred was eating around others, indoors or outdoors, restaurants or private gatherings. That’s why I didn’t go get my favorite bacon n’ eggs at my favorite breakfast joint for nearly the entire year of 2020. Nobody was more tired of home cooking or drive-thru than me. But if I had chosen to break guidelines, I sure as hell wouldn’t have treated my masked servers like some kind of lepers.
I was tired of not catching flicks in a genuine movie theater.
I was tired of giving every human being I saw a ten-foot berth.
I was tired of being overly leery about a random cough or sneeze.
I was tired of wondering how many parts per million there were in Covid aerosol particulates, and of estimating the average hang time of droplets in each passerby’s wake.
I was tired of being subject to our consumer-driven society’s penchant for marketing pandemic-savvy products, including brand name masks, outerwear, and lockdown style kitchen and home living offerings.
I was tired of hearing about the 98% survival rate from naysayers who failed to take into account the virus’ rampant deviation across genetic baselines, which rendered statistical averages meaningless at the individual level in terms of potential immunity.
I was tired of memes being tossed around so cavalierly amongst Covid deniers, who apparently disregarded the math that should unverified average survival rates prove to have been accurate in the long term, presuming all Americans were infected at some point, 2% of 328 million Americans meant 6 million of us would die. I was tired of bearing witness to the kind of people who thought losing the entire population of Los Angeles was an acceptable cost for them not feeling stifled by wearing a mask at Costco.
I was tired of seeing the nightly news broadcasts reporting the daily case and death rates, that it had become an accepted norm, not unlike the U.K.’s daily BBC reports of KIAs during World War 2.
I was tired of vicarious screen life in general, phone and broadcast and ‘net and streaming and whatever-the-fuck-else-have-you.
Yes, I was tired.
But I was not as tired as the nurses and physicians who were absolutely exhausted from the consequences of our complacency, over and over, many of them sacrificing their own lives.
Cliché alert. I quote the Puck here:
Lord, what fools these mortals be.
*Compiled from November 18, 2020