Read Online Light Lifting by Alexander Macleod - Free Book Online

gloves. Vials of vaccine. Bad orders, expired shipments. The government, people say, the government. Ridiculous panic in the eyes of people who always, always panic. Protesters. Who will be saved? In what order? Teachers and firemen and front line workers. Who should get it first? Letters to the editor. A woman interviewed. She is hysterical. But I work with people, she says. I work with people. Adjuvanted and unAdjuvanted. Pregnant women and kids under five. People with underlying medical conditions. The twelve-year-old hockey player, the forty-two-year-old mountain climber. There was nothing wrong with them.
    Our son says I don’t want to get shot. Don’t take me to the place where I get shot.
    No, honey. Nobody is going to shoot you. Just a needle, a little pinch so you won’t get sick. They have stickers and orange juice. You get a sticker when it’s over.
    A needle?
    Yes, just a little pinch and that’s it.
    I don’t want to get needled. Don’t take me to the place where I get needled.
    INOCULATION.
    If you get up early and wait in the line, I’ll bring the kids around at eight. That way they won’t have to stand out in the cold for hours.
    You know this is nothing, right? Mass hysteria. TV makes them do it. In two weeks, just you watch, no one will care anymore. They’ll move on to the next thing. You know that, right?
    Yes. All crazy. Yes. All crazy until one of them gets sick because we didn’t get them a dose of free vaccine from a free clinic. Then what is it?
    Okay.
    So you line up and I’ll bring them over at eight.
    Good.
    STAND IN THE DARK with the others. Young fathers with cellphones and the same idea. Teenage girls and their strollers. Minus ten and four hours to go. Limited options. A dozen Dora the Explorers sleeping on the sidewalk. Thermoses and donuts. Reliable grandparents picking up the slack, covering the bases. Lawn chairs and blankets. Half-conscious snow-suited toddlers. We are close enough. Front of the line. The door is there and it will open at eight.
    A kid completely coated in the white goop from a cinnamon roll.
    My thoughts. That stuff is going to jam your zipper, my friend. No way around it. His mom is pregnant. She looks at my jacket and my boots. Takes a deep, slow drag on her cigarette.
    Your wife is going to come with the kids just before they open the doors, isn’t she?
    Yeah, that’s what we’re thinking.
    Thought so.
    She sucks back the last heat from her cigarette. Flings the filter against the wall. Nods over to her son.
    You watch him and hold my spot and I’ll bring you back a coffee.
    No problem.
    When she returns, we drink it down quietly. Feel the warm moving through. Talk about the price of diapers. Secondhand snowsuits. Value Village. They grow so fast. Three pairs of boots last winter, I swear to God. Stupid to get anything new.
    My kids pull up at ten to eight. Clean faces and warm hats. Their snow pants have their names written on the tags.
    A guy from the back comes forward.
    No cutting, he says. Eyes empty and tired. He wants to enforce the lining up law.
    I tell him I’ve been holding this spot since four in the morning. The cinnamon roll mom nods her head.
    My wife looks in the other direction. Raises an eyebrow at me. Shrugs. The kids are quiet. This has nothing to do with them.
    But the cinnamon roll lady won’t back down. Gets up in his face.
    Right fucking here since right fucking four, she says. He held the places and I got the coffees. We’ve been here since the beginning.
    I tell the guy to relax. This clinic is only for pregnant women and kids under five. The priority groups. Nobody else is getting anything. I’ve been holding this spot since four.
    Tough, he says. Doesn’t matter. Back of the line. No cutting.
    I am too cold for this. Sick of him already.
    You don’t run this show, I say. This is our spot. I have been here since four and we’re not going anywhere.
    He