Just Follow the Green Ribbon

There are about 250 of us Golden Oldies living happily here in the retirement home. This five-story building, overlooking green and red strawberry fields, is often referred to by other names; one of them is ‘The Orphanage’ Because none of us have parents?’ The Old Aged Home? I hate it, who decides that we’re old? ‘The Raisin Farm’ Well, there are few dried and wrinkled residents. Like most of us…

I’m only 87, a ‘youngster’ according to some of the older folks tottering around. I don’t mind being called that. At least I’m still walking straight up and using a computer. Sometimes I have to call grandson Tommy, aka my ‘help-desk’, to drop in and help me find a story or article I wrote yesterday. I know I saved it on the computer so that I could find it again later. Strange things zoom in on the wake of sleeping pills and fiddle with my toys.

Today was an unusual day here; lots of excitement! The health authorities were coming to give anti-Corona-vaccinations! Over 250 captive customers all in one place! It took some organizing. First to convince a bunch of nervous old people that they must have the vaccine. Then to explain that they must go to the auditorium which had been converted to a ‘field’ hospital. “Don’t go now! Not yet! Not yet!! We’ll call you when it’s your turn.”

And the questions:  

“No, it won’t hurt.”

“No, it won’t bleed.”

“No, you won’t faint.”

“No, you won’t catch the disease from the injection.”

“No, your children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren won’t be able to visit you.”

“No, your computer cannot catch this virus.”

And the answers:

“Yes, you will still have to wear a mask.”

“Yes, you will still have to keep your distance.”

 “Yes, you will be able to play bridge afterwards.”

“Yes, you can attend the exercise class and use the swimming pool afterwards.”  

 “Yes, you will get a slice of cake and a cool drink after the shot.”

The answers to these questions were printed and stuck up in the elevators and at strategic points in the corridors. One couldn’t miss them. But that didn’t stop residents from asking them, time and time again, just to be sure.

I went into my study and pulled a file labeled “Medical”. I intended to take it with me. It’s my medical history from birth. Maybe the paramedics would have questions? Who knows?

Downstairs the large lobby and auditorium have been converted to look like the departure area of the airport. Long colored ribbons have been placed to direct you into the action area. Once in, you cannot turn back. You have to keep going forward. You stop at a desk and a pretty secretary asks you your apartment number. You linger for a moment. Someone prods you in the kidneys and you have to move forward. Now you are in a seating area. Someone sticks a label on your shirt. Probably got that chemical glue on your shirt now, the kind you can never get rid of.  

After a long, irritating wait my name is called. As I enter the injection area, I am grabbed by a man and hurried to a chair. He asked questions: Name, ID number. Date of birth. Left or right jab? I answer all his questions without pause. Good sign. Memory still working. Another man grabs me and leads me to another seat. There stands the medic, warming up his needle. Is that a wicked smile on his face?

I see the needle go through the cork and into the vial. He pulls it out, checks for air bubbles, and starts its way down to my arm.

“How are you today?” he asks when it is 6 inches away.

“Great!” I say.

“Ever been vaccinated before?” 3 Inches to go.

“Sure, take a look in my file,” I say proudly. How did I know he would ask?

Needle stops at 1 inch. He opens the file and starts turning papers.

“Holy Moley! In 1933 you were vaccinated in Ouagadougou! Where the hell is that? In 1935 you were vaccinated in Pretoria! In 1940 you were vaccinated in Johannesburg! In 1980 you were vaccinated in Jerusalem! What’s going on?”

“Where does it say I was vaccinated?” I ask.

He runs thought the list again.

I shake my head. “I’ve never heard of any of those places.”

“You sure? Sounds as though you were born in Ouaga whatsit.”

I shake my head.

“And Pretoria? Capital of South Africa? You lived there?”

“Nope!”

“The others, both big cities; Johannesburg, Jerusalem?”

“Never even visited those places.”

“Something’s wrong. I’m calling my superior. Hang on.”

I hang. Superior arrives.

“What’s the problem here?” he asks.

“Not me,” I say. “I’m waiting for my shot.”

“The nurse says you have a long history of vaccinations.”

The guy with the needle is a nurse? I’ve seen better looking nurses. Wow! Remember that nurse at the hospital? I bet she gives great injections without any questions…

“Let’s get on with it! Give him his shot!” says the superior in his loudest voice.

“Sir,” argues the nurse. “This man is full of vaccinations. I’m afraid that we may upset an existing shot.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, nurse.”

I decide to take part in the argument.  

“Listen, you guys. I’m full of all kinds of stuff your professional colleagues have filled me with over the last 87 years. You really think that one more shot will bring my body to overflowing point? It won’t let another one in? I’m on good terms with my body. We’ve been together a long time. It says go ahead! So do it.”

“What about all these other places where you’ve been vaccinated?” asks the superior.

“Never heard of them. Never been to them. I don’t want to know anything about them. I’m too old for new information. The department of useless information in my head is full. Won’t accept any new stuff. Got it?”

“Got it. Go ahead, nurse!”

I look down at my arm and see the needle being pulled out of my arm.

“Thank you, Sir. Follow the green ribbon please. You’ll get a slice of cake and a drink and you can relax for 20 minutes. Who’s next?”