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Off to Oz

It’s dark and the wind is yowling. The entire house shakes as gusts beat at the walls like twin fists and rattle the windows. I sit at my laptop and tap keys then squint at the screen.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Today is the day I can sign up to get the COVID-19 vaccine and I’m up past midnight trying to get an appointment. Everything is booked already. One site tells me to come back at 6 a.m. All that napping and coffee for nothing. I’m tired and deflated. I sigh, turn off my laptop, and shuffle off to sleep.

The next morning things don’t look any brighter. Icy rain pelts at the windows and when I arise at 5:45 the house is black as a cave. I begin again. There is the clicking of keyboard keys, then the scrolling of pages. I lean forward to be sure I won’t miss anything.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

No one said this would be easy, but I figured being up early would count for something. So far it only counts for bigger bags under my eyes. It’s not until I get to work and learn a tip from a co-worker that I get any result.

“Answer the questions, then hit the back button when you get the come-back-later message. Keep doing that over and over,” she says. “The appointment page will suddenly pop up.”

So, I follow the yellow brick road of frustration and what do you know? It works. An appointment pops up at a casino conference center in two weeks. I jump on it. Then the real journey begins. It’s a long two weeks, but I feel lucky. One of my friends can’t get an appointment until nearly two months later.

I’m not a morning person, but on the day of my first dose of vaccine, I’m up with the birds. The sun is shining and the air has turned early-spring balmy. Colors pop in the bright light as if everything is suddenly bathed in Technicolor.

I follow the winding highways, my GPS telling me where to go. Then, up ahead just beyond the tops of the trees, I spy the gigantic glass building, gleaming in the late morning sun. Oz.

Before long I’ve been processed and am in a chair with my sleeve rolled up. The needle stick is painless. I’m used to the bigger needles they use for drawing blood, which are okay, too. Nothing to be afraid of at all. This one I hardly even feel. So that’s it. I’m done. My wizard of a needle-sticker grants me my wish. I’ve received the first dose of vaccine. It’ll be another few weeks before I get the second, and my appointment is made for that as I wait in a room to get the all-clear to leave.

I say thank you to every person who assists me on the way in and again to every person on the way out. Everyone seems to be doing that. We’re all happy here in Oz. Happy and grateful.

I’ll still wear my mask in public and wash my hands regularly. Neither is a big deal to do and if doing those things can keep me from infecting others, I’m glad to do them. I also know I have more of a road ahead before I’ve achieved any kind of immunity. I do feel a sense of relief as I exit Oz, though. It’s like the first heel-click of ruby slippers.

Near my house I stop at a red light and glance over to my left. There’s a moving van there and it has a picture of a big dragonfly taking up the entire side. I’m obsessed with dragonflies. This one is a beauty, purple and green, with wings spread over the entire length of the trailer. Where Will You Go Next? reads a message under the dragonfly’s right wing.

I don’t know. But I can’t wait to find out.

Juliana Gribbins is a writer who believes that absurdity is the spice of life. Her book Date Expectations is winner of the 2017 Independent Press Awards, Humor Category and winner of the 2016 IPPY silver medal for humor. Write to her at jeepgribbs@hotmail.com. Read more of her columns at www.zip06.com/shorelineliving.