The story thus far: One of the things Julie missed most from the pre-virus days was her weekly lunch-at-a-restaurant date with her best friend Vanessa. Protocols, shutdowns, and closures reduced their meetings to a weekly lunch-time phone call (in addition to random-time-of-day texts, emails, and phone calls) like this one . . .
“Do you remember back when this whole virus-thing started?” Vanessa asked Julie during their regularly scheduled, weekly, lunch-time call.
Julie snorted. “Just barely,” she said.
“You know, back when we all thought everything would be shut down for two, maybe three weeks, tops, and then life would get back to normal? Remember how everyone made big plans for what they were going to do during those two, maybe three weeks of forced stay-cation? I was going to paint my kitchen, learn a foreign language, and start a new exercise program.”
“Oh, Van . . . .”
“OK, so I was going to hire some hot, young hunk to paint my kitchen, have Mexican food delivered, and start exercising.”
“Van, I . . . .”
“Fine. I was going to clear off my kitchen counter, drink margaritas, and buy some cute yoga pants. My point is, this pandemic has been going on for what, seventy years now? And I haven't done any of that.”
“Been a little busy at work?”
It was Vanessa's turn to snort. “Between the regular work, the fill-in work caused by virus-absenteeism, the added virus-related work, the added 'how is the virus affecting work' reports, the mandatory 'voluntary' Covid-coping strategy Zoom meetings, and twice-weekly Covid tests, I've just about had it. As Saint Roch is my witness, I've considered faking my test results just so I could isolate and have a little me time.”
“Trust me, being in isolation isn't a 'get-out-of-work-free' card,” Julie said, looking at the stacks of paperwork on her desk. Julie was on day three of her quarantine after coming into contact with “Germy Jimmy,” who had subsequently tested positive for the virus. Julie had tested negative herself, but was quarantining out of an abundance of caution. Miss Irene had taken over Julie's delivery and errand chores, while Julie handled Miss Irene's usual duties.
“I thought you were working from home already," Julie said. "Why the twice-weekly tests?”
“The last round of job-shuffling has me back at the office two afternoons a week – not the same two days as I go in for tests, mind you. That would be too efficient. I work from home the other six.”
“But that's . . . .”
“OK, the other eight. After a while they all blur together. And now I'm in charge of volunteers.”
“How did that . . . .”
“I was late for a Zoom meeting.”
“Didn't they put you in charge of scheduling Zoom meetings when you were late for the last in-person meeting?”
“They did. I am. Someone hacked my account.”
“You mean someone figured out your password was 'Zoom4Van'?”
“If I thought you knew how to use a computer I'd be suspicious.”
“For someone who built a state-of-the-art router from a first-gen iPhone, a broken toaster, and a discarded Teddy Ruxpin, you are crap at password protection, Van.”
“Pffft, like the CIA needs a password to track my credit cards.”
“I'm sure Hoover and the boys have better . . . .”
“J. Edgar was a Fibby. No, this goes much higher than that. I caught Sister Mary Katherine Ignacia lurking outside my office.”
“Wasn't she the . . . .”
“Volunteer 'Director of Volunteers'? Yes. She's been trying to retire for years but couldn't find a replacement. Those big sleeves on her habit really slowed down her reaction time for 'nose goes' .”
“That, and the fact that she's 103.” Julie quickly crossed herself to ward off any stray lightning bolts of smiting. “Now that you're in charge of volunteers, why not have them volunteer to help you with all your other duties?”
“Oh, you sweet, naive girl. Even if there weren't half a dozen well-meaning privacy and security acronyms limiting access to my files, there's this pesky little pandemic that limits . . . well, pretty much everything else – and not just at the hospital. Most of the other volunteer opportunities around town have dried up as well. There's been lots of press about people who have lost their jobs due to COVID, but nothing about all the volunteers who can't volunteer. And do you know what they do with all their newly un-volunteered free time? Call me to ask how they can help. Every. Single. Day.
“There must be something they can do.” Julie licked and sealed another envelope, adding it to the stack of completed Thank You's Miss Irene had given her to write. She wondered how she could swing a volunteer of her own.
Vanessa sighed deeply. “Weh-yell,” she stalled, “there is that direct-mail, fundraising project Sister Mary Kat has been putting off.”
Julie thought Vanessa's sigh sounded suspiciously like the sigh of a person about to ask a big favor. “There you go! Problem solved!” But Julie had a feeling that the problem was far from solved. “When do the volunteers start?”
“They don't. They won't. They turned me down.” Vanessa paused, waiting for Julie to take the bait. When she didn't, Vanessa rushed ahead. “And now I'm stuck with 500 fundraising letters that need to be stuffed into envelopes, addressed and sorted.”
“Van, I'd love to help you but . . . .”
“Thankyousomuch, Jules! You're a life saver! They're in a bag outside your door. I dropped them off on my way to work this morning.”
Julie, who had started pacing when Vanessa made “well” a two-syllable word, paced toward the door.
“I'll send the second batch of 500 letters over as soon as Sister Mary Kat finishes signing them.”
The thought of the 103-year-old Nun signing all those letters triggered Julie's latent Catholic guilt. "Fine. I'll do it. But Van, why is there an empty Ho Ho box in the bag?”
“That's a whole 'nother story,” Vanessa said.
To be continued . . . with Ho Hos.
No comments:
Post a Comment