Tracking down the elusive vaccine
When I got a call telling me to zip down to the hospital and get in line for a vaccination I did exactly as told.
About 90 seconds later I was wheeling along Clara Street and onto Hospital Drive, and immediately realized everybody else in Ukiah also got a call tipping them off, except their calls came three minutes before mine. They had a slight head start, and that was enough to turn the several acres between the railroad tracks and Pear Tree Plaza into the county’s biggest and fastest growing parking lot.
A rules-free, anarchic parking
lot, to be sure. Cars were backing out of jammed medical office lots and right onto Hospital Drive, which already had no shortage of cars slaloming about. Everyone was searching for that elusive empty slot so they could begin the sprint to the hospital.
Cars were everywhere you’d expect them to be and quite a few places you wouldn’t. As I rolled around that final curve and onto the southbound straightaway some guy stopped his Toyota at a bad angle in a red-curbed zone and dashed across the 80-foot roadway, leaving his car door wide open behind him.
It was like one of those movies of a panicked populace that’s been alerted invaders from outer space will scorch the planet in five minutes, beginning with Ukiah. People were running wildly across the lawn. Is Elvis planning a concert in the front yard? I was running across the lawn too, having ditched my unlocked car at an office across the street.
I was quickly re-directed to an open air, second floor space above the pharmacy, and I waited there among scores of others in a haphazard line outside a clinic door.
Because I had done the “zip” thing to get down here as fast as possible I had no jacket. It was shady and cold and I was counting heads and guesstimating that if it took, say, two minutes per person to administer a vaccine, I’d be well into advanced hypothermia by the time my turn arrived.
The good news was I was able to avoid dying from frostbite because they sent us all home. The bad news was I hadn’t been inoculated. Medicine all gone.
The next day a friend told me he’d been to the Fairgrounds for a shot (good news!) but had to stand in a long line (bad news!) that seemed to stretch from Carl Purdy Hall down to Hopland and back again. His vaccination came following a wait he estimated at around four hours.
A day or two later I got another call, this one on a Friday afternoon, with news that vaccinations were again available at the hospital. Knowing how long the line might be I used the bathroom, grabbed a candy bar, and drove on down. I quickly realized I was too late. It was as empty as the Ukiah Movie Theater parking lot.
There were plenty of parking places on both sides of the street, and no one was even milling around let alone racing about. I pulled over and walked across to inquire about upcoming times and places for vaccines, which is when I saw the line. I joined. It was impossible to tell how long the line was because it might have gone around the corner of the building, or in a door and down a hall. Or it might have been 50 feet long. Whatever.
I checked my watch; it was 2:45 p.m. I chatted briefly with a 31-year old guy ahead of me when the line took a sudden lurch forward. That’s when I discovered I was standing in a line that really was just a measly 50 feet long, including social distancing. A nice nurse-type lady jotted my information on a form, another took a temperature reading, I stepped inside a mediumsize room and handed over my paperwork, was directed to Table 3, and rolled up my sleeve. Got the Pfizer version.
Out the door at exactly 3 p.m. Next, the mandatory short wait to make sure I didn’t break out in pustules and convulsions, and I left with an appointment for a follow-up shot. And, except for the fact the candy bar melted in my shirt pocket it was a glorious, thrilling day. A thrilling 30 minutes of a day actually.
But a corner was turned, a cloud had lifted and soon soon! I’d be free to move about the country.