We toured the courtyard that housed the Ferris wheel, taking many pictures along the way, most of which were of either Porter or Jeremy or both of them hanging out. The ride itself was something of a bore: I was hoping that I could see the Frisco skyline lit up, but everything was covered in the fog. At least the kids enjoyed it. Leaving the ride, one passes through one of those photo centers where we could purchase a couple of the pictures we had taken right before getting on. The five of us, all unmasked, walk through. I expected outrage. “Put your mask on,” says one of the employees. I had no intention of purchasing the photos, but I was wanting to try out a new line on the denizens; my friends thought it would throw them for a loop: “I’m vaccinated,” I lie, “so I don’t need the mask.” And I kept walking out of the tent.
I had to find a somewhere to break these bills, as I owed Vee $31 for the tickets she had bought online. Vee wanted to see the photos. I went to the hotdog/concession stand, right outside. Putting my “immune system” on, and telling Porter to stay close, I walk up to the lady wearing the “Black Lives Matter” facemask and ask if she could break my twenties. She seemed a bit annoyed, probably overhearing my comment back there, but I was very polite, and so she did me this favor. Porter was already at the curb. I rush over to make sure he went no further.
Then I hear it: “Fuck you! This is how you treat the disabled!” It was Vee. They were right outside the photo-tent. Apparently the employees had grabbed the pictures out of her hand and told her to leave. But she wasn’t leaving quietly. She threw out 2 or 3 more “fuck you’s” with the extended finger before storming off. We all walk out of the park and back to the streets. Along the way, I stop and gave her a big hug. Then the cash reimbursement. “This is why I’m so depressed,” she said to us. I felt that in my heart.
Vee was absolutely right: yeah, sure, it’s a private business (or is it really?). But we’re customers. And she’s a lifelong resident of the city, as is her mother. Someone has to say something, to make a protest, to exercise our rights as citizens and consumers. We had walked through this amazing park several times during our trip, below the towering green trees that danced with the breeze of the bay, the combination of which tickling the senses. There was no way I was going to withhold this wonderful air from my young son. While we enjoyed it with no weird handicap, I couldn’t help but feel sad for everyone else around us, who must have been driven by a mad delirious compulsion to cover their mouths and noses. Looking at our party as if we were aliens from another world, it was tragically obvious how many people want these protocols to go on forever.
I imagined them waking up in the morning: the first thing they do, before checking on their kids or using the bathroom, is look for their masks and check the latest numbers; then a glance out the window to see what the crowds were like. They seem to relish the opportunity to participate in the world’s largest propaganda operation. It made them feel like heroes and liberators; free-breathers, like us, were tyrants and enemies. And when you thought it through, it made no sense whatsoever. California has had mask mandates since the beginning, and our numbers are worse than states that weren’t nearly as strict as we were. It proves how useless these cloth masks were, and I figured that any such protection would come from N95’s, which so few had.
Joggers proudly waved their flimsy fabric in their hands, proclaiming to the world that they were doing their part even as poison spittle gushed out from their strained lungs. Bikers had their masks around their necks, close to the throat; perhaps it was a morbid offer made only to the most hysterical, that if they were so inclined, they could reach out and strangle them with it. So long as everyone else wore the mask, humbled themselves before the “science,” and treated their neighbors like potential death vectors, then all was well and good. Breathing fresh air is taboo. Shaking your neighbor’s hand was the same as swinging on them. Smiles were a thing of the past. As for hugs, the city doesn’t have enough ambulances for that kind of chaos.
The author of Indictments from the Convicted is about to become a refugee from the Pyrite State. To help him on his new journey in Arizona, consider making a contribution to his Patreon. OR, check out his website. OR, check out some of his other essays — including studies on the American Police State, Genital Mutilation, Clintonism, and his seminal argument In Favor of Hatred.
