The Hand Sanitizing Station in the Corner of Chase Bank is Really Making Me Feel Safe

We're going to beat this virus.

Covid-19 is unlike anything in our lifetimes. A virus one one-thousandth the width of a human hair has altered lives across the globe. It's a challenge that demands a level of social cohesion and technological innovation unseen since the space race. But when I walked into my local Chase branch the other day and saw a single, lonely hand sanitizing station tucked unassumingly in a corner, something inside me said: “We will beat this thing. We are going to be okay.”

Your days are numbered, Coronavirus! Tremble before the mastery of the physical world that has been achieved by your soon-to-be vanquisher, Homo sapiens! You may have a spike glycoprotein and rapid multiplication rate, but we have knowledge, reason, the printing press, and the internet; we have the combined wisdom of thousands of generations before us and a capacity for foresight unparalleled on this planet. And that singular intellectual dominance has caused us to say: “We should probably put a little Purell thing in the bank in case anyone wants to…I don’t know…wash?”

Obviously, we’ve known for well over a year that Covid is basically never transmitted through surface contact. The odds of catching Covid from one of those little, triangular pens at the bank is basically the same as your odds of being carjacked by a Shetland pony. But Covid demands that we take every reasonable precaution, and we’re not going to stop there! We’re also going to take every unreasonable precaution, including ones that are annoying, scientifically unsubstantiated, and generally as pointless as a nut sack on a bowling ball.

Chase Bank is but one company vigilantly manning the barricades in our fight against Covid — many restaurants have also risen to the challenge. Replacing menus with QR codes remains the impenetrable barrier that Covid cannot cross; not since the Greek phalanx has humanity devised such an impervious defense. The peace of mind provided by this innovation — which works a solid 70 percent of the time — is so substantial that I practically forget that I’m sitting pretty much in the middle of the fucking street in a ramshackle shed made of plywood and tin, a structure so shabby that it wouldn’t pass muster as the birthplace of a 19th century blues musician. When I’m sitting in one of these shacks de cuisine, enjoying the February weather in New York while buses whiz by literally one foot from my head, I can’t help but think: “We win, Covid!”

Special recognition in this fight should go to the Popeye’s Chicken on my block. Obviously, when someone walks into a Popeye’s, they’re saying: “I am a person who cares deeply about my health.” Probably because Popeye’s is synonymous with clean living and wellness, they’ve transformed their humble chicken shop into a bulwark against Covid. Their vigilance was apparent before I even entered the restaurant; a sign on the door declared: “A MASK MUST BE WORN TO ENTER.” It was unclear if there were any penalties for ignoring this command — perhaps the extremely stoned 16 year-old sitting in the corner playing Fortnite on his phone had been deputized to act as an enforcer — but I immediately complied. As I approached the counter wearing my mucus-encrusted cloth mask that the CDC tells me does very little, I noticed that there were plexiglass partitions between me and the register. I found this comforting; it’s true that the barriers disrupt airflow and often actually make things worse, but I felt that the message being sent to the not-sentient virus was important. Of course, I had to remove my mask and lean around the barrier in order to be understood by the woman taking my order, because I tend to mumble and she’s been speaking English for three days, but no worries: Most people in my area are vaccinated and boosted, so I’ve had my shot, she’s probably had her shot, and I assume that the guy I could see behind her sneezing directly into my spicy chicken sandwich has had his shot, too.

The Olympics are illustrative of our strategic parry of Omicron’s thrust. Athletes are required to wear masks in between epic fuck sessions in the Olympic Village. Relatives patched into the broadcast via webcam often wear masks just in case the virus develops the ability to travel through the internet (and it might!). A few times, NBC has cut to a coach or an official who is wearing a mask despite the fact that he is literally a man standing all alone, outdoors, at the top of a mountain. You know what I call that? I call it vigilance!

Covid appears to be in retreat. Hospitalizations are declining, and evidence suggests that for people who are vaccinated and boosted, the risk is no greater than the typical flu. The fight isn’t over, but — for the vaccinated, anyway — victory appears nigh. To what can we attribute this progress? To the safe, life-saving medicine that’s been provided to us for free, or the ticky-tacky safety play bullshit that stopped making sense a year ago but that nobody knows how to wind down? It’s difficult to say. But I saw something emblematic in Chase Bank’s proud little hand sanitizing station. It seemed to signify the grace, reason, and cool-headed effectiveness with which we, as a species, have managed this pandemic. It’s a simple totem signifying that no matter what the challenge, the sheer dynamism of human ingenuity and collective capacity for reason will provide a quick and effective solution. The human race will not be outmaneuvered. We will not be defeated. We have a limitless arsenal of strategies for dealing with this virus, of which that noble little hand sanitizing station — standing like an ever-vigilant sentinel between the deposit slips and the office of Craig Torregosa, Loan Specialist — is but one part.

And no: The fact that it was empty didn’t bother me.