On the vaccine line, plenty of humanity

The line snakes around the building, and a man in a bright pink, short-sleeved polo shirt approaches a soldier taking temperatures outside Lanman Center, a Yale fieldhouse that early in the coronavirus pandemic was converted into an emergency field hospital.

These days, in one of those hopeful signs of this immensely odd spring, it’s a COVID-19 vaccination center.

Polo Shirt tells the soldier he has a 9 a.m. appointment. It is 8:50. Does he have to stand in line?

He does, so he moves past 50 or so people to the line’s end. What are you going to do? he says as he takes his place at the back, and the man in front of him turns and smiles — or at least, his eyes crinkle beneath his mask, and he comments on the man’s thin polo shirt. On this chilly morning, a cold wind is pushing morning temperatures down into the 40s.

This is Polo Shirt’s second dose of the Pfizer vaccine. When he came for the first one, he walked right in, got the shot, sat quietly for 15 minutes awaiting a reaction that didn’t come, and then he walked out. In fact, on that day three weeks ago, he was surprised how seamless it all was, but then, the state had not yet opened up vaccinations to pretty much everyone older than 16. Many in this line look decidedly young. And cold. Polo Shirt should have worn a coat but he didn’t consider there would be a line. Later someone says there was a fire alarm which put operations behind a little.

Waiting lines aside, Connecticut is setting a national standard for vaccinating people against COVID-19, and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention just gave the state nearly $34 million to speed things up. According to the New York Times, a quarter of Connecticut residents are fully vaccinated, compared to — as of this writing — about 20 percent nationwide. Though states such as Michigan have seen spikes in cases and there’s always concerns about new variants of the disease, an average 3.1 million Americans are being vaccinated every day.

Though the word was overused during the last presidential administration, the speed at which people are getting their shots is unprecedented, and in a good way.

There have been hiccups. Medically vulnerable in Connecticut were supposed to receive the vaccine early on, but then the state decided to vaccinate based on age. Recently, a CVS employee wrongly told a woman in Hartford that only U.S. citizens can get the vaccination. The company said it was following up with the employee to correct that. You don’t need insurance, or citizenship. You only need to be 16 or older.

Vaccination clinics have cropped up all over. Even the casinos — Foxwoods Resort Casino and Mohegan Sun Casino — are in on the game. At Foxwoods last weekend, signs pointed to the best place to park, and early arrivals were promptly taken in.

Foxwoods was administering Pfizer, though visitors could sign up at certain times for the one-and-done Johnson & Johnson shot. After 15 minutes’ wait, visitors could go home and wait two weeks for the vaccine to take full effect, or they could wander over to Hard Rock Cafe and admire a bejeweled two-piece suit once worn by ’90s crooner Chris Isaak. Or they could slip onto the casino floor, visit a Dunkin’ Donuts, or watch visitors inexplicably throw coins into a fountain, which seems a strange thing to do at a casino where you’re dropping money already.

Still, it was a welcome break from the cold, lonely days of winter and if you couldn’t see the smiles, there were plenty of crinkled eyes that marked the freedom a vaccine will eventually bring.

Business at both casinos suffered during the pandemic but business is picking up. Comedian/social commentator Dave Chappelle will be at Foxwoods in June. Mohegan Sun’s ad encourages people “Welcome back — come have fun.” By way of reassurance, Mohegan casino has posted its 20-page safety guide online. People who think it’s time to let down their guard are quickly corrected, At Foxwoods, a young man walked by the vaccine clinic with his mask worn below his nose, and a security guard immediately reminded him how to wear the mask properly.

At Mohegan, thermal imaging cameras took temperatures of visitors as they came in, guests who scanned with an unusual (low or high) reading were greeted with the light touch of a temporal scanning thermometer.

Meanwhile, even though this is New England and people generally don’t chat with strangers, the people in line at Lanman are making friends with one another. After months of isolation, here stands some humanity with whom to commune. The line moves quickly enough that socially-distant clumps of chatters have to be reminded to turn and move, as well.

Out of nowhere, Polo Shirt tells a story about his twin daughters’ birth, how he and his wife didn’t think they could have children, and then his wife had a prophetic dream that she was carrying twins.

No one scoffs. The fact that everyone is in line for a lifesaving vaccine after the year we’ve had seems downright miraculous, which leaves the door open for conversations about dreams that trumpet the arrival of unexpected but beloved children. Polo Shirt nears a nurse in scrubs taking temperatures. He looks at Lanman’s doors, and says, flinging his arms wide, “The pearly gates!”