This mortal coil may be dwindling, but my wheelchair batteries are not. And thus one sets out on a Monday for that place which is Cup. Sam, the proprietor, greets me as always. And I roll outside to an awkward situation. The sidewalk features three of Sam’s tables, two adjacent, and one blocked by a sort of planter/partition. I elect to be on the right side of the latter, COVID-19 figuring prominently in my calculus. The problem is the man at the table on the other side of the partition. I don’t wish to be churlish or even to appear so. My decision to sit where I cannot see him, or breathe any of his possible viral particles, could appear rude or antisocial. So, I make small talk. “How are you doing,” I ask. He responds with the predictable, adding that my wheelchair looks new. To put a finer point on this, he asks if the blue hubcaps aren’t a recent addition. No, I assure him, without acknowledging his interest in me, my transport, and so on. It’s fine. The social niceties matter a lot in these days of virus paranoia.

Seated outside, I read the Guardian. Particularly fascinating is an account of how the California Highway Patrol sent out a regional alert to watch for antifa buses en route from Oregon to the rural north of my state. Encouraged by reports from the sheriff department in Redding, provincial hub for the region, the CHP even launched an aircraft in hot pursuit. The problem, of course, is that there were no such buses. This was all the phantom stuff of the Internet. The phantoms are very popular in America these days. In fact, they are in many places. Oy fucking vey.

On the way home, I consider various options for increased interpersonal experience. No, I really don’t need anything else from the local market. And let us forget the book shop, because it has forgotten us on this day of its closure. There is nothing we need except to be home. And, yes, there is currently no “we” at home, but not to worry, for I have not been abandoned. The wife and I shall join forces in that sunnier clime to the suburban south. Not to worry. All is well. All is all. All is one. Do not send to know for whom the bell tolls…which means do not press “send” until you are absolutely certain. And, frankly, if you are absolutely certain, there is something terribly wrong with you. Get a grip. Get a life. Get an Uber, if you must, and change location.

As for the latter, the clock is ticking on our launch for parts north. What’s going to happen on route to Seattle and beyond? The uncertainty is part of the charm. And the ability to travel is part of the great sense of freedom. Let us be grateful.