I have my bike helmet in hand when I run into my neighbor. It's a colder than usual winter day, a high of twenty-three degrees, but I intend to avoid the subway if at all possible. I keep this fact to myself because I sense further elaboration would only lead to additional questions, and I'm becoming uneasy - I cannot be late today.
01/31/2021
Charles Circle - Charles St at Cambridge St (3:42 PM)
Charles Circle - Charles St at Cambridge St (3:42 PM)
There is nothing visibly wrong with the first bike, but when I unlock it and start to pedal I find a problem - it's permanently stuck in the lowest gear. I fiddle with the knob, a token gesture, before returning the bike and pressing the "repair" button. This locks the bike in place until a technician can fix it; the simple solution prevents one problem from causing multiple issues. I am now, almost certainly, running late.
The clock started when a quiet Tuesday morning exploded into chaos, one email, another email, then a flurry of responses and chat messages, with all roads leading to a Zoom meeting optimistically allocated thirty minutes. The agenda covered the logistics of the scheduling tool, which seemed intuitive enough; simplicity is the key for the masses, but nothing is so simple. The final few minutes were preserved for questions and the two hundred or so in the virtual audience demonstrated that complexity is a matter of individuals expressing narrower concerns. Did we get to choose the manufacturer? Was the vaccine safe for pregnant women? Would there be three or four weeks between shots? Would there be additional vaccination opportunities in the future? One question was so far over my head (about amino acids, I think) that I stopped listening to the answer just to preserve my mental energy. After almost a half hour of questions, the assembly fell into silence, and the host capitalized on the quiet to end the call.
I didn't have time to ask my question - why us? It felt like someone had made a mistake. I sporadically checked public sources over the next few hours to confirm what I'd learned on that chaotic morning - the state had declared all hospital employees eligible for the vaccine, from the front-line ICU staff down to this idiot, the one writing this sentence you are reading, and hoping will end; I've been in my remote "office" for twenty-two hours a day for the past ten months. There are some mysteries in life, but my place in line wasn't one of them, or so I'd thought. I repeatedly returned to the state's website but its list of eligible categories remained frozen with yesterday's news, and only furthered my suspicion - the closest category to me was "home-based health care worker", which based on the rest of the site seemed interchangeable with "health care workers providing care in the home"; the former kept me in the race, the latter put me out of the running. I decided that the most sensible approach would be to take the latest available appointment - it gave the governor as much time as possible to issue a stay of execution. I confirmed the timeslot and waited for the inevitable follow up - sorry, there was a mistake, please see below.
It never came, so my turn is at 4:50 PM on Sunday. Fate has just over an hour to put me back into line.
01/31/2021
Charles Circle - Charles St at Cambridge St (3:43 PM)
Dartmouth St at Newbury St (3:52 PM)
The next bike is geared for the task and I take off down Charles Street toward the hospital. It's an opportunity to take advantage of a new bike lane that rings the Public Garden, which eliminates the senseless danger of maneuvering through four lanes of Beacon Street traffic en route to Comm Ave. These bike lanes popped up earlier on in the pandemic on a temporary basis, but recent upgrades suggest the safety is part of the furniture now; it's hard to envision anyone making a compelling case to return these streets to the 2019 setup. The only issue with the new lanes is pedestrians - they sense that the protection afforded to bikes for some reason extends to them, and they let their guard down as they wander to and from their parked vehicles, oblivious to the danger presented by cyclists. Or maybe, it's the cyclist who remains oblivious to the meaning of protection - with cars excluded from the lane, we are now able to stop without fear of being run over from behind.
My itinerary includes a short detour to the library, a stop I consider postponing due to my time concerns - I suspect there may be some leeway for late arrivals, but there are no options when you miss the the last train. Still, I decide to stick with the schedule; my backpack is heavy with overdue books. I dock the bike, walk to the library, and discover that it's closed on Sundays. No matter, there is a simple solution. I walk over to the drop-off bin, take off my mittens, and unpack the bag. The books feel like ice cubes on my exposed fingers. I push on the lid but it, too, is frozen. I try again, trying to force one book in by using Heating & Cooling like an ice pick; I catch the book as it falls back out. There is no ice; the bin is full.
Copley Square - Dartmouth St at Boylston St (4:02 PM)
Longwood Ave at Binney St (4:19 PM)
I am realizing that it's been a long time since I've had any kind of day out - I have no sense of how long it takes to ride a bike from my apartment to the hospital. Luckily, the error is in my favor, and I arrive thirty minutes early. The instructions were explicit - please check-in within ten minutes of your scheduled time - so I take a twenty-minute walk around the campus. As I make my last turn, I see a man on the opposite side running frantically down the block - running late, I assume - from door to door, trying one locked entrance after another; the hospital, like the library, is closed on Sundays. Luckily for him, the unlocked door for the vaccination clinic is at the end of the block on his side of the street, and eventually he makes it there through some combination of desperation, fortune, and the process of elimination. I follow him inside but lose him at the elevators, opting to wait until I can take my own car up to the third floor.
The clinic is in the dining area, which has been converted for the weekend. The rows of staff seated behind plexiglass protectors reminds me of customs on the American side of Niagara Falls; the stern request to wait when I'm about to step forward cements the comparison. I look behind me and find one colleague in line, who I haven't seen in a year - she's also the only one maintaining six feet of distance. I wave, then turn back just as the late man from earlier zips past, almost clipping me with his elbow as he exits. Eventually, the person in charge emerges, who also happens to have run the call a few days earlier - she explains that due to some mix-up, they haven't prepared enough doses, so we'll need to come back on another day. There are appointments available on Thursday, which is news to me; I'd have preferred it from the start. There are no other options. The scheduling tool is the same as before, but I accept the offer of help in setting the new time just so I don't have to go near the others sitting by the computer. I think about the security guard who, seeing me freeze at the overflowing bin, unlocked the library doors and offered to take the books inside.
As I linger in the vicinity, someone asks me if I can take a picture of their small group. I finally realize that everyone here is protected; it would be too risky otherwise. The scene around me is pretty much what you'd expect when a roomful of people realize the mission is accomplished - there is relief and joy, there are pockets of celebration, there are exposed nostrils. There is that sense of teamwork and community that I can still recognize from a distance, even if it's been years since I've felt it myself. It's like that moment when the engine shuts off and everyone steps out of the car, the group reinforcing safety, blissfully unaware of any potential threats. Is a protected space about safety, or is it just where we put our guard down? We couldn't get everyone to stop, and now we can't get everyone to go; it's a complicated situation, but not everything needs to be complicated.
I take the phone and snap the picture. We've all gotten what we wanted today, I suppose. I hand over the phone, forget about my individual concerns, and share an elevator on the ride down to the lobby. I am back in line; it's simpler that way.
