The Maskless

I live on a private street. Not once since March when COVID plagued the world, have I seen any of my neighbors, many of whom are seniors, wearing a mask. I guess they were sprinkled with fairy dust.

Further, all day, every day, I’m completely gobsmacked by the parade of smug humans, dogs, goats, bikers, strollers full of adorables, and skateboarders infringing on my privacy, ignoring the “No Trespassing” signs at each end of my street, since COVID, none of these intruders has worn a face covering. Nobody.

Each morning when I begin the search-and-destroy mission to find my newspaper, I ask the trespassers, “Where’s your mask?” Most give me the finger. Some say they left their face covering in the car. Or in Pico Rivera. Others shrug, like the pandemic is a myth.

But the worst response came from a middle-aged woman with Frida Kahlo eyebrows and hockey player teeth, who was exercising her Chihuahua. I asked her to please cover her face with a mask.

“It isn’t mandatory,” she snarled.

“You could be killing people.”

“You’re old already. Haven’t you lived long enough?”

Actually, no.

I wrote to the members of our City Council relating this incident, hoping it would incite them to make mask-wearing mandatory outdoors, like it is in Greece.

The only response to the eight messages I sent was “move to a less-populated area.”

Really? That oughta stop the pandemic in its tracks. Why didn’t I think of it?

Jesus.

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