Virus in a Small Town

I’m a fly by the seat of my pantalone’s kind of a betty so I was fucking stoked when my trip to Hilton coincided with the breaking news story that the first confirmed case of Covid-19 was in my “home” town. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not wishing the virus on anyone (enemies excluded), but I’m a dirty ho-bag for a good story, and this is a helluva story. The prodigal daughter was coming home- the red carpet was rolled out- my father had found hand sanitiser and for once he wasn’t moaning about the toilet paper s(h)ituation. My dad has a thing about toilet paper… as a family we “go through far too much of the stuff”. I had hand sanitiser, toilet paper, and I was itching to get into the hub of Hilton Village to check out the vibe.

I’m not sure what I expected to be honest. Actually, that’s a lie. I expected a Hollywood Blockbuster. I wanted the scene from ET where the government agents are all hazmat-suited and booted and the danger zones are all tented in a massive quarantine bubble. Where was my quarantine bubble? And where was the tumbleweed rolling down the streets. Where was the Ennio Morricone soundtrack? It was in my head.

Despite this, I’m not the type of pantalone wearing lunatic to be deterred from telling a good story. ‘Persistence’, I remember, is something I tell my students. And, if all else fails there’s my go-to exaggeration. There’s a fucking story here and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let the lack of hazmat suits and face masks influence this narrative.

The Quarry Shopping Centre is, on any given day, a fucking nightmare. To put you in the picture, there’s one way in, and one way out. Parking is so valuable that the “Moms and Tots’” bays are often invaded by non-moms and then the Internet goes fucking crazy and pitchforks are sharpened. One day someone will lose their shit completely and the Mombies will revolt! Cries of “the Mombies are revolting!” will rain down on the village. But not today. Where are the Mombies?

I mean there are moms here. They’re just not the ones who wear the uniform- the leggings/skinny jeans, white blouse/t-shirt, scarf that goes “pop”, gilet if it’s a bit nippy, and cute little canvas takkies (usually Superga). The out-and-about-moms, the Normoms, are just going about their day, and I’m waiting for them to pull out face masks from their handbags to add a litter glitter to my story. Where are all the face masks? They’re not in the pharmacies I’ll tell you that for free. My pharmacist friends tell me that they were the first casualty of the Coronavirus. Maybe Spar will have some answers?

Spar is busy. I mean sure it’s not filled to the brim with those damn pensioners who insist on smashing into the back of your ankles with a trolley wheel, but it’s certainly vibey. Ronan Keating is playing in the background so I’m reassured that the winds of change haven’t moved in to destroy everything sacred about village life. People aren’t stockpiling canned food. There’s a massive pallet of antibacterial soap. Expectant. There is fuck all hand sanitiser. Hilton residents will have to “make do” with soap.

The lack of Mombies, hand sanitiser, and face masks are the only clues that things are a bit rough in the village. I decide that I deserve a glass of wine. I need to think.

My head isn’t as sharp as I’d like it to be after a night of ‘Nana always used to say the best thing for germs is whisky’. Nonetheless I decide to accompany my dad on his errands because I need one more crack at this story. We go to the pharmacy that services the “Garlington side” of Hilton- my dad says he’s never seen it so empty on a Saturday morning. It’s eerie. Visions of tumbleweed. Ennio don’t tell the orchestra to pack up just yet.

It’s a Saturday morning and it’s the quietest I’ve ever seen Hilton. We hit the bottle store; a few parents seem to be self-medicating as usual, ‘virus or no virus I need my wine Wayne!’. Dave is clearly having a braai (for one?). Edwin is clutching a bottle of Old Brown and a bottle of Gordon’s. There’s that fucking Ronan Keating again. ‘There’s no story here’, I tell my father. ‘Let’s go! Hilton is so weird!’

I’m feeling disappointed. Where is all the hyperbole I’ve read online? Where are those pesky Whatsappers and their vitriol and histrionics? And where the fuck are those damn Mombies? I want my apocalypse dammit. And then it happens… as we drive past Grace College we see a bonanza. The Jesus Makro, as I like to call it, or Hilton Christian Fellowship, as the attendees call it, is fucking packed to capacity. The signage says it’s some kind of leadership thing but I’m almost sure they’re discussing the Coronavirus with Jesus in there. Is that a craft beer van? In any event it’s telling that the Jesus Makro is clearly protected by some invisible, almost 100% effective antiviral agent. Okes have flocked there. Fortuner by Fortuner.

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As for the Mombies and their spawn? I eventually find out that they’re in “self-quarantine”- probably watching Gwyneth Paltrow’s GOOP Lab on Netflix while chugging down glasses of Haute Cabriere Chardonnay Pinot Noir. After all they must be pooped out; they’ve had an exhausting week of bidding over hand sanitiser at the local pharmacies, auctioning off face masks, and Googling Coronavirus. My brother actually said it best (sorry Ronan Keating), ‘Jaqs, no virus spreads as fast as gossip’. Mass outbreak of the Hyperbole Virus, the only cure is to self-quarantine yourself.