A surreal experience.

The building is behind a strip mall, around the corner. Its barely maintained parking lot is filled with cars. The structure is an ugly tan with a blue overhang where the businesses' name once proudly hung. Now a cloth sign simply reads Vaccine Clinic: appointment only, tied in place by rope.

The interior is what remains of an abandoned retail location. The floors are a grimy, speckled tile, chipped and scuffed. The walls were once painted yellow and dirty white peg board used to promote the various wares this store sold. The ceiling is dirty metal beams and florescent lights. In one corner, banners from the now defunct businesses still hang: "RZONE." With a stylized O. The back half of the building is hidden behind hastily installed curtains.

Instead of shelves are rows upon rows of tables or single plastic folding chairs, each one spaced out from the next. At the tables sit men and women in camouflage uniforms or dark scrubs. In the chairs sit the disparate people, most wear short sleeves and all sport a fresh band aid on their upper arms.

The uniformed staff patiently and politely herd the many people from entrance to table to chair to exit. Their expressions, mostly hidden behind masks, are tired. Their postures stiff, as only hours of repetitive work will provide. They stretch and yawn and then welcome the next man or woman in line.

I am welcomed by a pair of greeters with the now customary digital thermometer. I trade a quick but pleasant exchange with a uniformed man and I am directed to one of the tables. Sitting at this table is a heavily tattooed man wearing a headband with the title "Nurse" in pleasant large letters sewn into it.

We exchange a few kind words, his exhaustion does nothing to slow his quick and expert hands, and he sticks me in the shoulder with a thin needle. Quick and efficient and I'm off to the next area. After another exchange with a uniformed individual, I am directed to the sea of chairs with the simple instruction to "wait and see" in case I become ill from the vaccine.

I sit amongst the other newly vaccinated and watch the staff as they assist each person that enters, the uniformed and plain clothed staff greeting, directing, and checking on the people all around me. 

It is a surreal experience.

I keep expecting to look over my shoulder and see a camera crew and director, this experience, the uniforms, the diverse people, all look too similar to what I’ve seen on the big screen for years. I fully expect this to be the beginning shot to a zombie movie, the vaccine takes a hard turn and everyone vaccinated turns on the tired uniformed staff.

Or this could be a disease movie, where after an intense series of action and drama, our heroes have found a cure. I keep looking for our hero to be standing off to one side as he or her quietly look out at the unaware masses that benefit from their sacrifice and hard work.

But this is not a movie. No A-list star is standing nearby. No director is going to yell “Cut” and call for us, the extras, to reset. Neither are any of us going to turn into zombies.

Instead we are regular people dealing with the new norms. My mind wanders to movie tropes because that is the only way my brain knows how to put this scenario in context. The camouflage uniformed staff, the dark scrubs, the plain clothed staff, the many different people, this run down building, and the medical nature of the scene are almost cliché in movies and shows.

But this is real life. And I’ll be back in a few weeks for my second dose.