Chapter IV: A New Hope

 

I awakened today to another missive reminding me of the New World Order. This time, it was from my dentist.

The letter said that, despite Los Angeles County’s shut down of all non-essential businesses, the office was permitted to operate by appointment-only (did it ever operate any other way? Were walk-in root canals common?). The county, the letter beamed, had determined “we are essential.”

At first I was mildly relieved. Good to know in an emergency.

Then I panicked. What is considered an essential business? I knew the malls were closed, but I hadn’t been in one of those in months. Same with schools, strip malls and airports. Again, I gave not a shit.

But the email got me thinking about individual businesses. Mom & pop shops. The auto mechanic. The small hardware store owner.

Just kidding. I thought about Jack in the Box.

Where was I supposed to get my sausage croissant with hash browns? Or Tiny Tacos with hash browns? Or hash browns?

I hurried Esme into the batpod (my smart car) and we tore ass down Vanowen Street toward junk food junction, where a McDonald’s, Del Taco and Jack duke it out everyday.

As I neared the intersection, I could see bustle at all three establishments. In fact, the line of cars at Jack circled the building.  How long, I wondered, until more businesses added a drive-thru component? Think about it: How handy would it be to order staple items online at Ralph’s, pay for it, and have it freshly packed and refrigerated when you pick it up? Groceries are beginning delivery service, but wouldn’t it be better have them freshly packed and chilled, as opposed to sitting in the back of a stoner’s Hyundai while he gets to other customers?

Turns out, fast food is essential. Seeeeee, Mom? Told you.

Of course, that didn’t help me with my immediate problem: I was not going to wait in a line that resembled Disneyland’s.

Fortunately, I have what doctors refer to as “crapdar.” I can innately sense where junk food is being distributed, either in frozen, fast or microwaveable form. And I my crapdar had, months ago, ferreted out a Jack in the Box a little further north, tucked next to a shuttered car wash and adjacent to an Amtrak railroad line. I’ve always loved it, not only for its hole-in-the-wall emptiness, but I love the sound of a train. It’s the mainstay of any city surf, and I can hear it from my house. At night, the city surf can be as soothing as any beach, if you listen soft enough.

And, sure enough, there was no one in line. I ordered my Tiny Tacos and hash browns. As we waited, a train rumbled toward us.

The warning bells sounded, the barriers dropped. Traffic began to pile, waiting for the train to pass. It did, whistling loudly as it crossed the intersection. There was not a soul aboard.

Still, I drove home happy — particularly as I passed the dumbasses still in line at junk food junction. I recognized a couple cars that had not even made it to the order window yet.

As I pulled into the garage, it hit me: Those routines we follow, the habits we form, the familiar motions that serve as a security blanket against virulent winds. Many of those exist still. Right here. Within our reach. Maybe it’s a person. Maybe it’s an animal. Maybe it’s tiny tacos.

Regardless, recognize them. Embrace them. Celebrate them.

That is the true essential.