As the COVID-19 restrictions continue in Cheyenne, it’s getting harder to avoid the stay-at home blues

BY RICHARD JOHNSON

        I wake up in my panic room, completely emotionally spent of all the dire posts of the outside world. I put my mask on to go to the gas station to get a pack of smokes while I wait for the host of my next Zoom meeting.
        Some tiny girls in short shorts and a cat ears head set laughs at my mask. I'm immuno-compromised and here I am still smoking.
        I touch the door handle with a Clorox wipe. A new episode of “90-Day Fiancé” is on. Some guy tho looks like

Gov. Mark Gordon speaks to protestors on Monday at the Capitol.

the Chet Blob from “Weird Science” mixed with Danzig is showering with his fiancé’s dad. A rat is eating a washcloth next to them. I turn the channel.
        Steve Harvey is getting hit on. I much prefer creepy Richard Dawson from the “Running Man.” Being stuck in the basement is making me feel like that girl in the well from “Silence of the Lambs.”          COVID-19 is my Buffalo Bill. I wish I had Thomas Harris’s writing prowess.
        It's like Day 50-something in my quarantine. Facebook just posted that Jason Hammock from Array developed a telehealth app for Stitches Healthcare. I think that’s pretty cool. I see his wife just got a new gallery; seems they are doing well.
        Array is assisting with making 3D masks, and Melanie is sewing masks. At least everyone is keeping busy while I lurk in a dungeon taking selfies with Wilson the Volleyball. It’s my go-to photo for television interviews and Blue Federal Credit Union Community Advocate Awards.
        Another instant message pops up. A friend from elementary school asks if I can share about a donut place that didn’t get some loan under the new CARES Act. I shared. The next morning there is line in the road of cars.
        Everyone feels good. No one talks about how they’ll survive the next week, but right now we got donuts. I talk to a friend who franchises restaurants. Profits are down 75 percent. We talk about the layoffs. The promotion entities in town won't share their posts because they aren't “local” enough.
        No one knows how franchise agreements work in this town. I watch the line at Panda Express slither as I head to the liquor store for the third time this week. My mask smells of my hot breath. I pick up my beer and talk about 50 percent reduction in sales and SBA qualifications.
        The radio station posts about a new brewery opening postponement while the existing ones get no coverage.
        Another Zoom meeting about our virtual concert series. Forty acts in the same situation we are all in — barely pushing through but playing their hearts out for new listeners who have no place to go. It's bittersweet, but my homies Josh and Mike always have my back.
        A new Facebook notice reversals that the Asher Upstairs is no longer available for events due to seeking more consistent revenue streams. The Lincoln posts photos of their new merch booth. Judge Judy is in the background, white noise as I write up my legislators about impending doom.
        Most of them tell me that with every dollar drop per barrel is a $12 million loss to the state. All of them write me back. Not all were doom-and-gloom responses.
        “Well, my honest belief these efforts to estimate everything from the virus to the financial impacts are people just falling into their human compulsion to control what they cannot. The truth is, we just don't know. These numbers are all just estimates and change as quickly as this happened.
        “Seriously, if we know anything about markets in Wyoming is that they swing wildly, in both directions. Certainly, there will be significant negative impacts, but I think particularly for Wyoming, we will weather it. Look at it through the lens of history and you will see we will be fine. It's going to hurt, but we will be fine.”
        I send her a Little Orphan Annie and Pollyanna GIF.
        Another inbox notification says that The Strip downtown is happening. I’m stoked by an article I wrote last year is going forward.
Sure, it's not like a bike ride in the sunshine, but I ran a red light, so all is good in the world. There were a lot of amazing cars and people were smiling. I guess it was a successful demonstration of solidarity. Just kidding, social distancing was applied, and I didn’t get out of the car.
        As I sit on the couch in a daze, I wonder how I just burned through 130 pages of Grover Cleveland's sexcapades and domestic violence. The press banned from the White House for humiliating the president. 1884 meets the 21st Century.
        Corey texts me the wish list for the week on who we are helping. I copy and paste to my wall. A small commitment to community engagement.
        The empty beer bottle stares at me from a Bacardi coaster from Puerto Rico. Yesterday’s vacation learning about various fruit bats has me sitting in solitude because someone ate a bat.
        The TV flickers with talking heads spewing about liberty, and there are more Confederate flags on display than the Army of Northern Virginia at Gettysburg.
        I’ve began rationing my Ruffles and French onion dip. I finally found Cup O Noodles at the store. The flower bed is full of cigarette butts again since the snow melted. How many tiny bags of Cheez-it’s have I eaten? The new buds on the plant are even getting named. This is Little Squishy.
        Why does Roku feel the need to take over the router like Genghis Khans invading army?
        Watching press conferences is my new hobby, like when I watched the entire French Open when I was 17 years old. The White House Press Room is red clay and 40-love is video clips of Democratic governors singing praises to the Federal government. Its all just balls going over the net.
        My escape is a bike ride to a brewery and drinking crowlers on the curb as I yell at skateboarders to land a trick. They flip me off. I fight a head wind.
        Soon we will all be able to gather around the conference table and raises our glasses to how we survived Rona. We won't have to Zoom into a cocktail parties, kids birthday parties, weddings or funerals. A seven-year-old swings at a pinata with no one around.
        If I wasn’t a lazy turd, I would go down to the Capitol and use my right to peacefully assemble. I'd probably be the guttersnipe that would hold up a sign that said, “As a man you have no right to tell me what I can do with my body!”
        Who am I kidding? I'd probably be the only one wearing a mask and still catch the damn virus. At least I got that one last shout at the governor that he works for me and no one else. Not those pansy lefties who sat at home on the brisk Wyoming day.
        I need a virtual hug.

Richard Johnson is a former City Council member from Cheyenne’s east side.