The New Regular Is Really Not Regular

As a man past 50 I'll tell you a little secret - the Q is lost without his Metamucil. For years I wondered why I couldn't depend upon regular and satisfying bowel movements, but like so many men my age and older I suffered in silence. During a difficult period one vacation I gave psyllium husk a try and I've never let it far from my sight. Solid, greaseless and regular B.M.'s have resulted, and I wouldn't trade that for all the tea in China. I even save money on toilet paper.

You might think that's gross. But is it? Aren't YOU the one who's cheating yourself out of one of life's little luxuries? Psyllium has been used since way before the white man arrived on these shores, and it'll probably still be in use once the white man is eradicated by a new small pox that effects his people but spares the natives, a centuries-long come-uppance for genocide.

Where was I...oh, yes, the Pandemic of 2020. This morning I ran out of Psyllium Husk and so readied myself as for battle with my adorable handmade green polka-dot mask (fashioned by a book club friend of Mrs. Q) and latext gloves, plus a bit of sanitizer in the old coat pocket, and headed around the corner to the Duane Reade, or as the Q's girls still call it the Don Reed, which gives the Q a kick of joy every time he hears the name uttered.

The new normal means that one will stand in line OUTSIDE the joint waiting to enter at a clip that keeps the Don Reed less than its usual density to the tune of about 15 per. There are markings on the floor to keep even the cashier line separated. A man whose meds weren't ready was freaking out - they were his "crazy" meds as he called them. The pharmacist calmed him down and said he'd front him a few while they worked things out with the insurance company. Little heroes seem like Churchills right now.

Tense. Eyes are sunken. A few drunks across the street tossed their bottle into the planter. I was aware of the spit that was inevitably coming from their mouths and I was glad to be on the other sidewalk. For myself I knew they weren't actually free of the reality, just hiding from it for a time, and who am I to begrudge them.

Listening to reports from hospitals is more than the heart can take, but it seems somehow a must to be there with the doctors and hospital workers as much as possible, to at least not be numb to the pain of so many dying alone, their families unable to say good-bye, except perhaps by FaceTime, as the bodies are lifted into refrigerator trucks to handle the overflow from the morgues.

It's dark dude. It's really, really dark, and getting darker.