The Unfettered Critic – November 2020

You’re drifting…warm…cozy…comfortable…

Peaceful.

And then something blasts from the radio on your nightstand—the one too close to your ear.

Maybe it’s Sonny & Cher, singing “I Got You Babe.” Maybe it’s Eric Teel saying something about a virtual pledge drive.

Instinct arm-wrestles with common sense…and wins! You manage to lash out, smack that bloody radio’s snooze button, and pull the covers back over your head.

Come back, peaceful, easy feeling!

But it won’t come back. You’re stuck in familiar terrain, feeling like Bill Murray.

You remember Bill in Groundhog Day, right? His character, TV weatherman Phil, goes to Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, and finds himself unable to move beyond February 2nd until he changes himself into a “better person.” (It’s funnier than that sounds.)

As for us (this means you), we’re now into the 10th or 11th month of reliving Groundhog Day, and nothing has changed.

Every day starts the same. Every day ends the same. Every day is the same.

You eat. You nap. You walk the dogs. (Not necessarily in that order.)

You put on a mask. You put on hand sanitizer—and dare yourself to head out for the nearest grocery store.

You see people on the street. The same people. Every dang day. And sometimes you see your personal version of Ned Ryerson (yes, even he’s in this), the auld acquaintance you’d really like to forget.

You can predict which people will be there when you turn a corner. You can predict what they’ll be wearing. You can predict what they’ll say. You respond with your usual “phatic gambit,” a generic phrase, usually about the weather, to fill the awkward silence.

Some weather, eh?

Yep.

Not so smoky today.

Nope.

Looks like rain.

Hopefully.

See ya.

Yep.

Social interaction at its best!

You head back. You wonder if you should bother stopping to pump gas into the car, knowing there’s nowhere to go but home. You put away your purchases and wash your hands. You eat. You clean up the mess, knowing it’ll be back. You take out the garbage, knowing it’ll be back. You watch television, hearing the same tales every day. You read the newspaper. Ditto. You click into social media. You find it leans less toward news, and more toward sharing.

Social glue. At least it makes everyone feel closer.

You eat again. You nap again. You walk the dogs again. (Not necessarily in that order.) You stream a movie, or maybe not, because it requires a different remote and you don’t feel like looking for it. You click back onto the Food Network. It’s Guy. Or Bobby. Or Alton. Again.

You notice it’s dark, so you drift off to sleep. You awaken to the radio, doing its thing. It’s got you, babe.

You (we) aren’t quite sure what we did to deserve this life. It seems to hinge on an infamous disease. Or on infamous politics. Will it end when the disease ends? Will it end with a shift in the political cast of characters?

Maybe one day that radio will announce updates on both of those things. We’ll sit up in bed and say, “Wow!” and be able to move forward, dump social media, talk about something other than the weather, and fill up the car with gasoline. Think of the road that lies ahead: to the coast; to the national parks; to the hugs that have been building up to be spread among distant friends, relatives, and trees. Huge, fat, tall, huggable trees!

Hopefully, just hopefully, neither you, nor we, will find Ned Ryerson, somewhere out there, lying in wait.

“In the Doldrums,” photo by Paula M. Block