CLOSING TIME

When I was Rutgers Law School student in Newark, New Jersey, I rented a room in Kearny, a densely packed, working-class town across the Passaic River from “The Brick City.”

At that time, Kearny had about a dozen bars on its main street, Kearny Avenue, and a few more on side streets. It had maxed out its state allowance for liquor licenses. These bars used to sell “short” beers—probably 8 ounces—for 40 cents; not just on certain nights or during happy hours, all the time. These were a bargain even in 1983.

One Saturday night, starting at 7 PM, four friends and I tried, on foot, to consume a beer at every bar in town. By 2 AM, we had completed only nine or ten; I know: bunch of slowpoke/lightweights. Hey, not every place poured shorties, so we had to down some bottles. Regardless, we laughed a lot, even without much of a buzz. And buying rounds was cheap and pseudo-generous. (Attorneys or students of Latin: no puns allowed here).

A town with many Scots, Kearny had three fish and chips places and an Andrew Carnegie-funded library, pictured above. About half the nights, I studied in Newark. On the other half, for a change of scenery, I studied at the Kearny Library. I would crack the books there from 6-9 PM, walk back to my apartment, eat fourth meal—before it was cool—and then resume studying until midnight.

While Kearny had many drinkers, it seemed not to have many readers. While at the municipal library, I would typically see or hear no more than a handful of other residents during a three-hour study session. Nonetheless, every night, the librarian: a pale, narrow-eyed, black-bespectacled, white blouse and plaid skirt-wearing, mid-sized woman in her mid-fifties with mid-length, permed, dyed-platinum-blonde hair would walk up nearly next to, or close behind my study table. She would announce, as loudly as if there were twenty people scattered throughout the single-floored, roughly tennis-court-sized interior:

“THE LIBRARY WILL CLOSE IN FIFTEEN MINUTES!”

She often made the same, time-adjusted, announcement five and then, ten minutes later. I would chuckle to myself at her very unsubtle hint that she wanted to leave early and that only I prevented her from locking the doors and going home. But I pretended to not hear her as I continued to focus intently on whatever casebook I was reading. To underscore my indifference to her message, I would scribble a line of notes as she walked away.

She issued these gratuitous warnings every night I studied there. When I entered at 6:00, she frowned at me as I smiled and passed the front desk. Ugh, not that guy again.

One night, right after an especially loud closing-time reminder, I turned toward the loud librarian and broke my silence.

Seemingly surprising her, I said, “You keep trying to get me to leave early. But the library is open until 9, you get paid to work until 9 and I’m gonna stay until then.”

BTW, the clock was always set five minutes fast. And seriously, is there any easier job in the world than being a librarian?

She made a face and grumbled something that I either couldn’t hear or don’t remember.

Generally, I stay at places until stuff ends. I used to stay late at sports practices and parties. I stay until the end of any sports game I attend and remain in church and at concerts until the last song is over. Dinner or lunch with me often takes two-plus hours: ask people who know me, including readers with whom I’ve met in-person or spoken with on the phone. I have a “Be Here Now” attitude. If I take the time to go somewhere or speak with/listen to someone, I try to make the most of it.

I never wanted the Scamdemic to begin. Throughout, I told everyone I knew that all of the lockdowns, masks, tests and shots were terrible ideas. Most disagreed.

Now, four years later, nearly all of the Covid-crazed want to act like the Scamdemic never happened. Even most of Substack’s Covid writers are transitioning to other topics to stay relevant and preserve their market share. I won’t do that, especially when those who say “Covid’s over” are obviously trying to shift attention away from their foolish support for the theatrical interventions.

I receive many reader messages that resonate with me. Last week, after writing the “Jam is Jam!” story, reader GLK commented:

The worst thing about the Jamdemic isn’t that it mysteriously appeared out of nowhere.

Nor that most fell for being scared to death of it.

Not even the several blatant examples of lunatic behaviors that I can never unsee.

The human cruelty that poured forth, unchecked.

The loss of friendships/relationships.

The unnecessary and mostly ignored deaths and maimings.

The capture of trusted experts.

Our handcuffs that our authorities never had to wear.

Force feeding of unsafe and ineffective snake oils.

Destruction of individual sovereignty.

Nay.

The worst thing is happening right now in the aftermath. It’s called…

Apathy.

Nobody, not my friends, neighbors, family or coworkers wish to acknowledge the virus’s underlying innocuousness and the folly of being afraid of it.

Some still test for Covid at the first sniffle.

One loves cockily repeating that IVM is “horse paste.”

My elderly in-laws are taking their requisite boosters. Still alive.

Those that know better are seeing the perpetrators living their best lives while most of society refuses to acknowledge the unnecessary suffering they caused.

The idea that the truth will come out is bleak. That the purveyors will be punished? Bleaker.

They seem to have won, no?

Undoubtedly, they’re taking notes. Sifting through the data. So the next generation most certainly will fall for the next Jamdemic.”

I resent that I have these memories. I didn’t want them nor did I ask for them. But it is what it is.

So [wrote GLK, alluding to last week’s Jam story; I hope you watched the three-minute video clip] I will eat my delicious jam, alone, sad that virtually all of my brethren still refuse to join me.

Being four years into the Jam/Scamdemic is like closing time at the Kearny Library: Don’t tell me when to leave. I’ll keep speaking and writing until I’ve run out of things to say. And not before then. Not even a minute before.

The Scamdemic backers are owed many reminders of what they did and said. And of the damage they caused. Please join me in repaying them over an extended period.