When Getting a Shot Becomes a Revolutionary Act

A friend messaged me the other day. Let's call him Bort. No, let's call him Steve. Steve is a normal and completely real person, just like me, and we share many of the same interests, such as staying healthy, trusting science, and acknowledging the basic human dignity of other people. But this post isn't about our virtue signaling, it's about a story he told me that made me imagine another story, so here are both at the same time because content, content, content.

They crossed the border from El Paso into Juarez just as the sun was setting. Streetlights on the U.S. flickered on, but across the river, their destination remained cloaked in darkness.

Steve is a family guy, like me. He's got more responsibilities than just keeping himself alive and healthy, though he also recognizes that his continued existence gives his family the best chance of prosperity, comfort, and survival. To that end, Steve, as he does every year since The Pando, attempted to get COVID and Flu shots down at the local Walgreens. It's as easy as going onto their website and scheduling an appointment. Of course, there's a little pop-up with a stern warning about being eligible, but you can blow right through that... no proof or captcha or anything.

So Steve clicked Yes, the patient is eligible, scheduled his appointment, and went on his merry way. He didn't say it explicitly, but I bet he spent the rest of his day stopping at stop signs, helping wayward turtles cross the road, and waving hello to his neighbors–even the ones he doesn't talk to that often.

She sat in the passenger seat with her forehead pressed against the window. The heater in John's car had given out the previous winter, so she had brought a heavy blanket for the ride. A breath of cold desert air leaked in through the cracked weather-stripping around her window, as sharp as glass against her naked cheek. But that was nothing compared to the discomfort still to come.

When the big day arrived, Steve drove down to the Walgreens, arriving 15 minutes early because his daddy had taught him that if you're not 15 minutes early, you're late. He checked in on his phone, which didn't ask him about his eligibility and certainly didn't make him prove anything. Nearby, a young couple sat in uncomfortable chairs while trying to prevent their 2-year-old from eating floor candy. Steve knew the struggle well, but he kept to his phone, playing some variant of Angry Birds with a poorly programmed dopamine loop.

He was playing video games, he told me, because the cell reception in that particular Walgreens was very poor, and they didn't provide WiFi. In 2025, no less.

Eventually, the nearby child wandered over, perhaps to say hello or perhaps to check if there was candy under Steve's chair.

"Hey, bud... what's up?"

"For Mr. Bort?" called a lady from the pharmacy window. "I mean, Mr. Steve?"

She hadn't asked him to come with her, had told him she could take care of it herself, that she was a grown-ass woman who didn't need a man to hold her hand. He'd insisted, though, and as the car turned seemingly random corners in the unfamiliar city, she was begrudgingly thankful for his company. Because after all, she wasn't a grown-ass woman. They were both seventeen, and neither had done anything like this before.

Steve stood and approached the woman at the window. She had kind eyes on an oval face surrounded by a headscarf. He gave her a smile, the kind he gave to all people who chose to engage with him, a smile that said I'm safe to approach and talk to. Ask me if I have any floor candy.

"Mr. Steve? I wanted to let you know that you're too young to get the COVID vaccine today."

This shocked Steve, as he's in his mid-40s and hasn't been too young for anything in a long time. He shook his head slightly, unsure how to proceed.

"The CDC only recommends the vaccine for patients 65 and older or if you have a preexisting condition. Do you have any preexisting conditions?"

"None that I can prove," said Steve.

The CDC, he thought. As part of the registration process, he'd had to review several documents from the CDC, like some kind of medical EULA. Even then, he'd had misgivings about taking advice from an organization run by a man who looks like the library cop from Seinfeld.

"But do you have any conditions?" insisted the lady.

"What do you need to hear from me right now?" asked Steve.

The car bit the curb in front of a nondescript building with a single amber light glowing above its door. John offered a small apology as he put the car in park and killed the engine. He looked over at her with uncertainty in his eyes. "You sure you want to do this? Your parents are going to kill you." Under the blanket, she scratched her stomach absently. "I have to," she told him. "I want to have a future."

The lady behind the counter smiled, and Steve, who had been panicking the moment before, suddenly relaxed. There was something in the way she looked down, then to the side at her coworkers, the other white-coated men and woman urgently rushing pill bottles to a never-ending stream of customers. Something like... I also know this is completely ridiculous.

"I just need to know... do you have a qualifying condition?"

"Like what?" asked Steve.

"High blood pressure, rickets, asthma..."

"The first one. I have the first one."

"High blood pressure?"

"Yeah, that," said Steve, grabbing his right arm as if he were having a heart attack. "It's really acting up today."

Again, a knowing smile. "Alright, Mr. Steve. I'll put that down. We'll call you back in a minute."

Steve returned to his seat, pausing to let the young couple remove their child from the floor beneath it. As he sat down, he wondered to himself, what the hell just happened?

John walked with her into an empty lobby as cold and uninviting as any doctor's office she had ever been to. An older woman at the reception desk looked up briefly from her phone, but didn't address her until she had been standing at the window for several seconds. "Do you have an appointment?" she asked, in Spanish. "Yes, for Jane Doe." The receptionist checked her computer, and upon seeing the appointment, softened a little. "Have a seat. The doctor will see you soon," was the gist of what she rattled off in rapid Spanish.

Steve and I both survived Winter Storm Uri back in 2021, which sounds dramatic now, but at the time, both of us had significant concerns about how to keep our family safe. Growing up in America, we were both under the impression that our government had a vested interest in doing what's best for us. (I know, calm down, we were young.) But starting with Hurricane Katrina and continuing through the natural disasters of the early 2000s to today, we've both learned one important truth: no one is coming to save us.

When Uri took out power in the state and exposed the isolation of the Texas power grid, we were completely on our own. If there was a mobilization of state or federal resources, we didn't see it. Instead, our help came from the only place it ever comes from: our neighbors and our community. The power was out. Water was out. But we had food, and milk, and bottled water... all delivered by our neighbors.

We got by with a little help from our friends, as they say. When the government lets you down, when you can't trust the institutions to provide you with accurate data and science, you have to turn to your community, to the people you live and work with.

Steve didn't know the Walgreens lady personally, but he considered her a neighbor, someone who was looking out for his well-being when his country would not. Even with his limited understanding of how viruses work or the severity of COVID infections these days, Steve knew it was a good idea to get his COVID shot, and the Walgreens lady agreed.

Just two people making a decision to do what was right... regardless of what Director Brainworm had to say.

She left John in the lobby as a young nurse walked her back to a private room with a table covered in butcher's paper. She'd recently seen an Instagram Reel of Jerry Seinfeld talking about the paper and how he likes to bring a little pickle to set next to him. She wanted to laugh, but the knots in her stomach were too tight, as if they knew what was coming.

Steve got his shots–one in each arm–and as he strolled out of the Walgreens, he wondered how it had all come to this. How had getting a vaccine become a revolutionary act in 2025? It sounded stupid, of course, but there was no denying the new reality: if the Walking Dead had happened today, Rick and team would never have headed for the CDC in Atlanta in season one. Daryl Dixon would have put an arrow in his head for such a stupid and pointless idea.

As of this writing in September of 2025, the CDC has made it even harder for people to get a vaccine. So even if you wanted to follow Steve's example of simply conjuring up a qualifying condition the day of, your mileage still may vary. It's another reminder that sycophants aren't scientists, which again, sounds like a silly thing to have to write or say out loud, but this is where we are. The wrong people are in charge of vital services, and your continued survival will depend not on them, but on your neighbors, whether from the street you live on or the Walgreens you frequent.

An older doctor came in some time later, his thick black glasses perched on the end of his nose. "Take off your jacket and roll up your sleeve, please," he said, in perfect English while miming the action with his free hand. His other held a small syringe full of clear liquid. She did as instructed, thankful for the small heater in the corner of the room. She looked away as he approached, choosing not to see the needle enter her skin.

Steve and I spoke at length about how bad things have gotten when you can say I know better than the director of the CDC. And it's not that either of us considers ourselves particularly smart. We just... you know... trust smart people. Scientists. Doctors. Engineers. Big brains. Nerds.

It's not boasting to say you are better equipped to run the CDC than Robert F. Kennedy Jr., as boasting usually makes you feel good about yourself. This idea that YOU could run the CDC better by simply listening to smart people is absolutely horrifying and a stark reminder that no one is going to save you.

Your continued survival is up to you, Bort. It's all on your very real shoulders.

A moment of hot pain, and then it was done. The doctor spoke on his way out of the room. "The site will be tender for a day or two, and you might have some mild COVID symptoms, but you should be right as rain in a few days." She offered her thanks, and there must have been something about her accent that made him pause at the door. He looked back as a father might look at a child who has dropped their ice cream cone on the hot sidewalk. "See you next year," he said. Ten minutes later, she and John were in the car, headed back to the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Anyway, Steve encourages everyone to go get their COVID shots, and if you can convince your pediatrician that your children have high blood pressure and rickets, get your kids vaccinated too.

Or don't trust me and Steve at all. That's your choice as an American, but consider this... things may fall apart. The Center (for Disease Control) cannot hold.

And next year, we may all be making the trip to Farmacias Benavides in Jaurez.

I'll drive.