I got my fourth vaccine in five months today.

It was a random occurrence and a second thought. I went to CVS to pick up a vital, overpriced immunosuppressant. The store was empty (note to self: pick up CVS crap on a Tuesday, Sept. 7, around 11 a.m.)

There was one customer, and he was wrapping up. The cashier asked a question in auto-tone and surely corporate-obliged:

“Do you want a flu shot?” she said.

“For covid?” he said.

“No, the flu,” she said.

“No thanks,” he said.

When I got to the register, I paid for my overpriced med. The cashier did not ask me any questions.

“Hey, are you giving flu vaccines? I said.

“Yes,” she said. “The pharmacist is at the end of the counter.”

We finished, and I walked to the end of the counter. A pharmacist was wearing a right wrist guard and was struggling with the geometry of the keyboard.

“May I help you?” she said. Her eyes never lifted from the computer screen while her wrist jigsawed on a mousepad.

“I’m here for the flu shot,” I said. 

We went through the formalities: ID and waivers.

Two men arrived behind me.

“You here for vaccines?” she called over my shoulder.

“Covid,” one man said.

“Both,” the other said.

“Take these forms,” she said, handing out waivers and clipboards. “I’ll be with you as soon as possible.”

She leaned over the counter. “Have a seat over there,” she said. “I’ll be with you as soon as possible.”

One man sighed, dropped the clipboard in a chair and walked off. The second took a seat, but kept standing to watch what was taking the pharmacist, perhaps, 10 minutes. He would pick up a box of Nyquil as if to read the label, but his eyes never left her.

I, too, was wondering, but I could see what she was doing from my seat: She was typing as if she were working on a college term paper that was due 10minutesago. Then, she got keys to unlock a safe that held a container — that contained a sealed envelope — that held a syringe.

I imagine all of those steps required clearance.

While she harried, two more customers arrived.

By the time she came out from the counter, the line was four-long.

“Man,” I said, “a second ago it was deserted.”

“People go into a drugstore like they’re going to a restaurant,” she said. “They expect it to be as quick as ordering food. But some days, I might have two customers, or I might have two dozen. You have to be patient.”

Today’s first learned lesson: A patient must be patient. The second: Remember first names. 

The third: I think I’ve stumbled upon a middle ground between the vaccinated and the vaccine-hesitant.

To the latter: I hereby volunteer as your guinea pig.

I realized on the drive home from CVS: I have been an emoji for science since I was 13 and caught Type I Diabetes. Add a double-transplant chaser, and it’s a miracle I haven’t grown a vestigial test tube. 

But as goes fortune, so goes fate.

So, for the record: I got the Pfizer vaccine on March 3, 2021, followed by the second vaccine two weeks later. 

On August 21, I received a third Pfizer vaccine, the booster recommended by the CDC for immunocompromised people.

Today, got the flu vaccine. I type with a slightly sore left arm, as doped as a Russian Olympic team.

I have no plans to report from the vaccine front. That gets old. And I’m not going to preach vaccinations. I’m no match for confirmation bias.

But I can be a pig. Just ask my mom.

Or a canary.

Or whatever t-shirt, badge, bracelet or emblem required to stand in league with science. I gladly don it, whatever comes.

I make this post public, but to those who know me, a favor: If I keel over from pincushioning, let people know. Everyone. Please, be merciless. And funny; there’s not enough funny. And please be honest.

If the vaccines are safe and effective, no need to do anything. I’ll be around, braying about important matters like Jadie’s birthday or bowel schedule — or here giving thumbs-ups like Roger Ebert on a sugar high.

I understand the hesitancy to get a shot from the government. The FDA has rushed medicine to the market, and who trusts a Fauci-type with forms to sign and needles to inject and worry to impart?

I do.

Now, where’s that exercise wheel?