[as if in dreams] A newsletter from Joseph Zitt #017
PDF (More printable) Edition
(That is, either this is the PDF edition or that is a link to it.)
8 January, 2021
This is issue seventeen of the newsletter.
It’s just the posts again. Aside from work and the film project, I’ve been preoccupied both with keeping up on the news from the US and with getting my first COVID vaccination (as I describe in Wednesday’s post) so I haven’t had much time to take in other media. Maybe I should make an New Years’ resolution to do less and watch more TV :-)
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Onward (sleeping analog?)!
Friday, January 1st, 2021
I scan my groceries in the supermarket at the Heart of the City. A young worker pitches me their club card. It’s sort of like the ones in US supermarkets, except that it’s a real credit card. I had turned it down before. The buses have changed. Other supermarkets are less accessible. Now it makes sense. Partway into the pitch, his high-speed Hebrew loses me. I say I don’t understand. He switches to English. I would like to sign up, but didn’t they just say that the store is closing right now for the Sabbath? “No problem. It will only take a moment.” Management probably judges him on how many signups he gets. I’ve been there. The signup kiosk is about a meter from where I’m checking out. He takes my government ID and types in my number. He asks if I have another credit card. I hand him the one from the mall supermarket. “Wonderful. We work the same way. This has almost all the information we need.” He also asks me for my phone number and address. We have to try the address a few times. It turns out he can’t quite hear me over the noise. We eventually get it right. Since I’m signing up for the card, I get fifty shekels off this purchase. That would be good, but I’m only buying thirty shekels worth of groceries. The discount won’t work. “Do you see twenty shekels of more things you want? They will be free.” I don’t want to roam through the closing store. I see some sliced cheese in a case nearby. I get it. It still comes to too little. The worker disappears then shows up again with another package of the same cheese. OK. I need to sign some forms on the kiosk screen. I step over to it. To sign, I have to block the path from the checkout lanes to the exit. A woman comes up to me and asks me to let her by. I do. The worker watches her leave. “A customer asked you quietly. That never happens.” I have to shift over a couple of more times while I sign everything. When I step back to my checkout station, I see that the screen has locked. A manager has to come over and type a code. The worker hands me a confirmation page. I scan a bar code on it to get the discount. I only have to pay a few remaining shekels for everything. We thank each other. I bag my groceries and try to leave. A guard has to unlock the exit to let me out. I step outside and check my phone. I should still have time to get a challah at the bakery and some lunch at the sandwich shop before heading home.
Saturday, January 2nd, 2021
Two empty cups of noodles sit on the chess table with the best light. They’ve been there a while. After I throw them in the trash, I brush away the noodles that had spilled on the table then dried. I sit down with a book and my coffee. The Sabbath cafe is open, with just the one worker. She sits at a table with her laptop until I come in. The shops seem to have made a tacit agreement with the lockdown authorities. They’re OK with one masked person at a time coming into the shop and leaving with what they get. Tables and chairs are set up on the patio, but I go to the city square. Men with dogs and children walk by. I see a lot of scooters and terriers. A young girl is learning to ride a bike. I never have. Each time I’ve tried, I’ve ended up stopping the bike by brushing the ground with my face. In front of the sandwich shop, a man is doing something loud with a truck and a metal cart. I can’t see what it is. It involves a lot of banging. At the taxi stand, burly men with shorts and sweatshirts wait for riders to come by or call. As I read a music book, I get an idea for how to improve some visuals in my film project. I want them to work more effectively on smaller screens. I stand and throw away my coffee cup. As I leave the square, the streetlights come on, one by one.
Sunday, January 3rd, 2021
The door to the burger joint is ajar. I stick my head in and ask if I can order takeaway. The cashier says something about a telephone. I don’t quite hear it. Another worker, standing behind me, taps on the outside of the window. “Call here.” I back out of the doorway and look. A sign shows the shop’s phone number. I call it. The cashier answers. We wave at each other through the window. I order on the phone. It feels like the way that prison visits are depicted on TV. The cashier and I are talking both with our hands and on the phone. I do it all in Hebrew, though I get jumbled once. I remember that they call sweet potatoes “batata” and fries “chips.” Thrown by using one English word, I ask for “batata chips” rather than the proper “chips batata.” After a second try, the cashier understands. She says to wait outside for a few minutes. Another worker comes out with the bag and calls my name. I take the bag and hand him my card. He rings me up and returns the card. I duck around two scooters from the delivery company and continue on home.
Monday, January 4th, 2021
The shortcut to the mall is dark. A few pale, yellowed lamps glow above the path around the playing fields, but no light shines on the larger road that runs past the club and the roller skating pen. To my left, I hear recorded music and people playing basketball. I can’t see them in the shadows. I wonder if they can play strictly by sound. I start to walk down the road. We’re a few nights past the full moon. The moonlight is enough. Still, I recall that months ago, when I last walked here, construction blocked the far end. That sent me off course, even in the daylight. I take a path out to the parking lot and head to the street. I hear traffic. No cars go past. The sound must be from the freeway, far from here. I only see one other person on the street. At the entrance to the mall, the few customers each hold a hand up to a mounted thermometer. It proclaims “Normal temperature” in English. The guard lets us enter. He doesn’t bother to check most people’s bags. Out of habit, I have mine open. He glances at it and waves me in. Inside, the lights are dim. A handful of people stand around. I see the bright lights of the supermarket at the end of the hall. That’s all I need.
Tuesday, January 5th, 2021
My phone pings soon after I wake up. It’s a text from my health plan. My doctor will be calling at 8:40 AM. They had told me a few days ago that she would be calling today, but I didn’t know at what time. I was worried that i wouldn’t be able to answer the phone when she chose to call. Now I know. She calls precisely on time. She has the results of my blood tests. They have sent them to me, too, but I didn’t know what they mean. Arcane Hebrew acronyms label sliding scales with numbers that I can’t understand. It turns out that I did pretty well. My B12 is low. She says I’m not eating enough meat. I’ll start taking tablets for it. My glucose is good. “You don’t have diabetes… yet.” I haven’t yet made some specialist appointments that she says that I need. I haven’t been measuring my weight and blood pressure. She says to make an in-person appointment. “I will measure these and tell you again how important it is to look after your health.” I make the appointment before I can procrastinate on it. On Monday morning, she will yell at me gently. Things will get done.
Wednesday, January 6th, 2021
Bright slogans cover the outside of the vaccination hut, one block inland from the seashore. I miss the entrance and go in through the wrong door. I find my way to the front from inside. The space feels warm and cheerful. The workers seem excited to help. They scan my health plan card and give me a number. The numbers go past quickly. When the automated voice calls mine, I am welcomed into a smaller area with booths separated by drapes. A nurse waves me in to one and peppers me with questions. We start in Hebrew but I quickly ask for English. I don’t want to guess what medical questions mean. Do I have any allergies? Have I had any shots in the past two weeks? Do I have a fever? Do I have the virus? She whispers the virus’s name, as if she doesn’t want to summon demons. Right or left? I don’t know what she means. She mimes writing. I do, too. I see that I’m writing with my right hand. Right and left confuse me. She gives me the shot in my other arm. After the initial pinprick, I feel nothing. She says to wait in the main area for fifteen minutes. I do. I read the wall in front of me, painted with wishes: That we might return to loving. That we might hug Grandma and Grandpa. That we might travel the world. That we might go back to doing what we love. When it’s time to go, I pick up a bottle of water and a fortune cookie: “Soon we will see our team win on the field.” A text message from the health plan tells us that anyone eligible who hasn’t been vaccinated yet should just show up here anytime in the next two days. I hear a worker say that they’ll be open 24/7. I walk along the beach as the sun sets. I carefully skirt the edge of the surf. A raven runs beside me, cawing in sets of threes. A tiny blond girl hops on one foot, pausing and balancing to pick up shells. One small puddle turns out to be deep. I get soaked up to my knees. After that, stepping in more water doesn’t matter.
Thursday, January 7th, 2021
Three boys on foot-powered scooters zoom around the center of the plaza outside the Great Synagogue. It’s a safe, bounded area. Three shallow steps lead down to it on the street side. Higher walls bound it on two. The fourth has what is now a large square of dirt. It may have been tilled for new planting. I can’t picture what had been there before. The same girls as before sit on the ground, up against the far wall. Families cluster around a row of chairs under roofs that would shade them from the sun, were the sun still out. I sit at one end of the plaza, far enough from everyone else to be comfortable taking my mask down and eating my sahlab. I may not be able to get another for a while. A new lockdown starts at midnight. Announcements warn us that it will be enforced more strictly than the current one. I listen on my headphones to reports of the chaos at the US Capitol, collected into podcasts after the fact. A car with markings from the lottery agency drifts slowly past. A woman’s recorded voice booming from it announces the latest winning numbers. Maybe someone within earshot got lucky. Nobody appears to react. The winner must be elsewhere. The car travels on.
Colophon
(Unchanged from last week, except for this line!)
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