Sure, I wear the mask. It’s probably as porous as the Biden-era southern border, but until I’m poked in the arm with miracle juice, that’s how things are. What I don’t get are the people who drive alone wearing masks. Why? In case someone on the radio has COVID? It’s like someone who put condoms on every finger to read Playboy during the age of AIDS.

Since I mask up as duly commanded, I don’t suffer the obloquy of the self-appointed Public-Health Commissars. But. The other day I was crossing the street on the outskirts of downtown Minneapolis, where I work. As usual, I had the town to myself. The lockdowns have emptied out downtown and eliminated that thing we used to call “commerce.”

Then I saw two people on the other side of the street, waiting for the crosswalk light. Two people! Now and then you see a Young Urban Professional who’s crept carefully out of an apartment tower, walking a small dog. You see the occasional muttering vagrant, a déshabillé flâneur. That’s about it. Two people? That’s like the olden times, when people walked outside in pairs to go to lunch, or shop, or just take the air, back before we thought air itself was suffused with invisible poison.

Both were masked. I was not, because we’re outside, it’s ten below, and it’s 2021, not the first five days of the pandemic when we thought you could get COVID by prolonged eye contact. The light changed; we crossed. Not only did they move wide to keep four yards distant, they glared at me. I could almost see spiky lines darting at my flagrantly naked face. Were they afraid of me?

For a moment I had a strange reverie, straight out of a 1960s American International movie about beatnik juvenile delinquents harassing a Decent Upstanding Family. You know the type. You know how the script would read.

Wife: Harold, that man isn’t wearing a mask!

Husband: I know, Helen, keep walking.

Child: Daddy, that man isn’t wearing a mask!

Husband: Quiet, Bobby. Let’s just get to the car.

Beatnik, speaking to his gang with exaggerated courtesy: Well, well, would you look at this, boys, it’s a real live all-American family, right before our ever-lovin’ eyes. Say, mister, you wouldn’t have an extra mask, wouldja? Me and the boys, see, we lost ’em. Didn’t we, boys?

(Gang members snicker; the short, ratlike member giggles.)

Ratlike gang member: Yeh yeh, we lost ’em. It’s like a tra-juh-dee.

Beatnik: I said, Do you got a mask, mister? There’s a pandemic on, or ain’t you heard?

Husband: Of course I’ve heard and I’ve made adequate preparations, and if you haven’t, it’s none of my concern. Good day to you.

Beatnik, to gang: You hear that, guys? (Liltingly, mockingly.) It’s none of his concern. (To the man, suddenly serious.) Maybe we could make it your concern.

(Wife draws children close, stares at husband with uncertain looks that contain both fear of the beatnik peril and doubt that her husband can protect them.)

Husband: Look, we, we don’t want any trouble. If you need a mask, perhaps I can arrange to get you one.

Beatnik: Maybe I can’t wait. (Fakes a cough.) Maybe I’m sick already. I wouldn’t want to get anyone else sick. You wouldn’t want me to get anyone else sick, wouldja?

Husband: No. Of course not. But I don’t have any extra masks on me. If you give me your address —

Beatnik: My address! And me fresh out of business cards. (To man, with sudden ferocity.) How about you give me your mask?

Husband: I don’t think so.

Beatnik: Then maybe we’ll take your wife’s. I’ll bet it smells real nice. (Moves over to wife, stares in her eyes, awakens something hidden beneath years of marital boredom.) I like things that smell real nice.

Husband: You stay away from her!

Beatnik: No need for the caveman act, daddy-o, we’re just talking. Aren’t we?

Wife: Harold —

Husband: I’ll handle this, Helen. Look, if you really want masks, you can use your shirts. Pull them up over your faces. I’ve read that it’s an effective barrier.

Beatnik: Well, Harold, I don’t think this Hanes Beefy-T provides a proper microbial barrier.

Ratlike gang member: He-he, you tell ’em, Riff, give ’em some science.

Beatnik: And I’m disappointed you want us to suffer from COVID because our shirts ain’t providin’ N95-level protection. Maybe I could take one of your kids’ masks and you could give yours to your boy there.

Wife: Harold! Don’t let them —

Husband: Shut up, Helen, I’ll handle this. (Gets punched.)

How we used to hate those beatniks. But eventually the juvenile delinquents were replaced in the culture by the thoughtful rebels, the nonconformists, the ones who didn’t accept with blind faith what the Establishment said, man. They lived by their own code, man. We were supposed to admire these free spirits, because they revealed the bland, self-imposed oppression of ordinary American lives.

Now the people who would’ve cheered the nonconformists are hoping COVID season lasts long enough to tip into the next flu season, so they can keep on wearing masks. Not me. As I said at the start, the second after I’m vaccinated, I’m burning my mask.

Okay, three seconds. Give me time to take it off first. I guess I’m not in too much of a hurry, after all.