Not sure if this is true anymore, but once a fear of journalists was that between the time a story was tumbling on the printing presses and the following morning, events would render it obsolete. It undoubtedly still bothers some, but the print edition of a daily doesn’t matter: I pick up The New York Times and Wall Street Journal each morning (credit, by the way, to the Times for still having a blue, logo-festooned plastic wrapper) and though I glance at the headlines, out of habit, they’re irrelevant.
Last Wednesday, I wrote a critique of journalists now acting as public relations men and women for hire (I’m still baffled that Matthew Continetti believes a rousing quincentennial on July 4th will help “heal” the nation) and added at the end a local annoyance (for me, but not a lot of infirm Baltimoreans) about the CVS in Charles Village—serving the Johns Hopkins community—getting closed down for “rodent infestation.”
I wrote it the day before, and naively figured the retail outlet might be open the next day. It wasn’t, and still isn’t (since April 2nd). My son Nicky, who also patronizes that CVS, is sure the company, which has almost 9000 stores in the United States, will shutter it for good. Initially, that didn’t make sense to me since profit is profit, but now I’m leaning towards his prediction. CVS is notoriously (maybe that’s too strong a word, since few corporations appear to give a fuck about their customers; scratch that, the word “does the work”) difficult to get what you want accomplished, with long lines, self-checkout stations that’re often broken, and underpaid employees going through the motions. Lackadaisical is an understatement, save for a few gals and guys who still believe in earning their paycheck.
Anyway, last Friday I traveled to the Mt. Vernon CVS location to collect a prescription that was transferred—nothing’s easy, your doctor has to send in a new order—and after a 25-minute wait (overflow from the rat-controlled location at 3200 St. Paul St.), I was at least treated to a sidewalk sideshow that was entertaining, if minorly surrealistic (but not at all “existential,” which is how the media describes even a Mets losing streak). It had none of Hunter S. Thompson’s “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro” ethos, because nothing’s “weird” anymore. (Maybe CT Sen. Chris Murphy and lunkhead Pete Hegseth qualify, but Bobby Jr. and that raccoon dick? Very 2026, business as usual.)
Transaction complete, I was waiting on the corner for an Uber (in nearly half an hour, I saw one cab whiz by; another industry decimated in the past 10 years, at least in most cities), and a Praise-the-Lord con man of undetermined age, was spinning out some unintelligible patter in hope of lining the pockets of his presentable slacks. Most refused (I succumbed after 10 minutes, and gave him a fin so he wouldn’t bother me), and the guy was undeterred, and asked the refuseniks to “Please bless me and enjoy this gorgeous day.” He was blessed so much that a St. Stephen halo appeared just above his head, although it could’ve been a rainbow. I couldn’t tell, since my ride was tardy, leaving me in a bone-sober trippy state of mind.
One young couple—I eyeballed them at 21 or 22—engaged in a vigorous, mostly one-sided, conversation with the hobo, discussing the plight of America’s “unhoused”—Trump’s fault, along with the Jews—and the war in Iran. Mr. St. Stephen listened, and tried to get back to the business of snagging a couple of bucks, but the duo kept nattering away. Turned out they had no cash, supposedly, but asked the fellow to meet them the following morning at some location I’ve never heard of and they’d give him 50 bucks. The couple made their goodbyes, blessed him four or five times, and I couldn’t help cracking up, since it was more ludicrous than anything Chris Murphy had said that day.
My private joke (I thought!), brought the students/social workers to my perch, and the young man said, “Sir, do you need a bottle of water or a pair of new socks?” As is generally recognized, males of Irish descent don’t age well, but I wasn’t looking that shabby, with pressed pants, a polo shirt, clean sneakers and a bag full of groceries. Ageism, I do declare, but at least they didn’t invite me to their probably mythical center for a “hot meal.” The Uber arrived just as a blind man—he could play Marley’s Ghost at a dinner theater shindig—appeared and started jawboning about “those fucking Republicans” to the panhandler/”bless me” itinerant (although, for all I know, he was just having some afternoon fun before returning to his four-bedroom condo downtown) and I made it home, shut all the doors, and watched the Red Sox walk off the Tigers.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023