Who is That Masked Man?
Issue 6 - October 31, 2020 ! Halloween !
by Dorian Yeager ~ Wordsmith in residence
Apologies to the Lone Ranger who wore his disguise over his eyes instead of his mouth and nose. Lucky Ranger.
This costuming travail started March 18th, 2020. (not my favorite year, if you don’t mind my saying). Masks became mandatory. Of course no masks were available anywhere. And if you can’t get it on Amazon, it really is unavailable.
So, being a New England girl and all, I set about making my own. Fortunately, the beer distributers for Malachy’s had a Corona Beer tee shirt give away and I bagged two for myself, because I’m greedy like that. Reading up, I was informed that tee shirt material was good enough for homemade face coverings in case of emergencies. The fact that I could fashion a few with the “Corona” logo screaming in blue for all to see appealed to me. For those who don’t know, I have a morbid sense of humor and having “Corona” emblazoned on my punim made me heroically laugh in the face of impending doom.
Next, Amazon finally had those festive baby blue paper jobbies for sale. From China. Another dark chuckle there. Only in bulk and for the cost of a small used car, but what can a person do? At least I could go grocery shopping even though most of what I wanted was unavailable and I had to stand in line just to find this out. And empathetically, there were a lot of Chinese out of work, too.
My niece, the fashionista, soon presented me with my very first cloth mask. Red. Plaid, in deference to my Scottish mother. Like enrolling me in the Peeps Fan Club, she proved once again how well she understands her dotty, old auntie. What she didn’t know is that I have a head the size of Rhode Island and her thoughtfulness just smashed my nose into my brain. Still, I was struck by the realization that people were making cloth masks and selling them on Ebay. Eureka.
The stylish coverings were running around $15 early on, but I ordered three in colors to match the only colors I ever wear—white in summer, black in winter, and now and again gray to disguise cat hair. All of NYC has noticed this peculiarity, but it does cut down on the number of shoes and purses I have to buy. And remind me in the future to only have cats in one color.
By then, people started sending me masks from all over the world. Florals, classic colors, pleated and cone shaped. Proving there is a upside to everything, being the epicenter of the infection early inspired all kinds of charity from the UK, Canada and Shamokin Dam, Pennsylvania. People in the new epicenters just aren’t getting this kind of enthusiastic sympathy. Sorry North Dakota.
Being new to all of this, I often gotten all the way to the sidewalk before I remembered to put one on. Thus, I now have an assortment hanging from my Medico lock on the front door. I still sometimes forget, but then, I am a dotty old auntie. I rotate them from time to time so the door doesn’t get bored. I’m thoughtful that way.
And just when I thought I had cornered the market on every conceivable virus muffler, the company from whom I buy cartomizers for my e-cigarettes send me an email asking if I would like baby blue paper masks for free. Wow. Their reasoning was that since most of their customers were ex-smokers we were sorely in need of masks since we not longer had any discernable lung capacity. Thoughtful. True. And, jeez, within two days I had 20 free paper thingies and a really cool black cloth one with SMOKESTIK splashed across what used to be my snarky mouth. (It’s still snarky but no one can see it and my commentary is muffled under fabric, so what the hell.) Incidentally, they still regularly send me free five-packs. I haven’t had the heart to tell them I’ve started smoking again because, damn, this is a pandemic, which is the ultimate excuse for doing all kind of noxious things. Another upside.
Naturally, as with all things because God has a sense of humor, there are some unforeseen complications. The first annoyance was the kind of foggy glasses that are the envy of perverse San Franciscans who think wet, cold, dank, impenetrable air is charming. And because I am just made of money, I ordered special eyeglass wipes to ameliorate the problem. They did not. They were usuriously expensive, which is true of just about everything associated with trying to Covid-cope. I just shrugged. If one does not just shrug these days, one ends of up in the Futon Suite at the Hotel Silly. I tried the soaping thing. Don’t do this even if it is Gain-scented. I even tried something I learned in my father’s scuba club. Spitting on the lenses. This does work, but you have to have the stomach for peering through your own spit.
As time wore on, I got puckish. I hate that but it happens even to me and I started pinning on all sorts of stupid buttons given to me as jokes for the past four decades. Mostly people are amused but I did learn that the one emblazoned with a fiery typewriter reading “Live Hard, Write Free” puts folks with poor eyesight or the habit of not paying attention ill at ease. It is now retired in the dim recesses of my childish pale pink jewelry box until the next writers’ convention—if there ever is one. “Vienna Waits For Me.” Sigh.
Ultimate downside, now that I’m working again and have to wear the beastly things all day, I am consequently the victim of back-of-ear rug burns. Did I mention the size of my head? There’s nothing quite like having to smear Neosporin behind the ears before bed. Does a job of the hairdo I don’t mind saying. Not to mention the pillow cases. And sheets. And bathtub ring. Not to mention the cats hairs that adhere to the entire aforementioned. Damn cats.
There is danger, too. I address this to the people I see on the streets who are not wearing masks. Warning: I have a litany of things I want to shout. Thus far, I have fought down the urge but I am not known for my self-control. It’s coming. I can feel it. “And who the hell are you?” Not imaginative, but this was early. Evolutionarily came the heretofore unspoken “Sorry about your grandmother” and ultimately to my shame, “Who the f*** are you, you narcissistic piece of ****?” Heretofore, that is.
This devolved into my dark acknowledgment that my gun is in NH and for all the right reasons. It’s been a tough pandemic. So…
Wear a mask! They suck, but New Yorkers are used to sucking it up. We’re good at it. And we have proven it. Sorry, Fargo.
We are now open!!! Indoors and Outside !!! 103 W. 72nd Street, NYC - Come join us for the Halloween Weekend!