THE COVID-19, LONG-HAIRED, OVERFED, LEAPING GNOMES

"...me, an overfed long-haired, leaping gnome..."  Spill the Wine, by Eric Burdon and War

Special to El Rrun-Rrun

He was overwrought on the phone, which is just about the only way we have to communicate nowadays to establish social contact in the thralls of this epidemia.

"I need a haircut," he said. "I haven't had my hair this shaggy since the first time I heard Led play 'Stairway to Heaven' in high school or Ozzie play 'Fairies Wear Boots.'

"Damn," I said, "You've been thinking about this. Saca la guena."

"Shit! I wish. What else is there to do?," he wailed. "The  news loop is nothing more than a long repeat all day long. I read good stuff but I can't share it with anyone when I come to some gem. And my hair itches on my neck. "

"Ask your old lady to give you a trim..." I venture, but soon realize it was a mistake.

"What? Hey, I thought you were my friend. I shave my head with a razor. Do you think i'm going to let her around my neck with a sharp instrument? As long as we have been cooped up together? I'll let you know that we have become firm believers in social distancing, bro."

"Oh, yeah," I say. "Well, people always find a way to get around things if they really want to. You remember Prohibition. Laws don't stop people. Do you think your regular stylist will make house calls?" 

"I don't think Eddie or Trey consider that an essential task," he said. "She'll probably get stopped by the Keystones or a deputy dog with my luck."

"Tell her to stop by the HEB and get you a six-pack and she can say she was at the grocery store. That's permissible right?"

"Yeah, I could do that..," he said, "But I don't think the old lady would stand for that shit. A chick shows up at my door with a six pack, c'mon."

"Why? Is she hot or what? Never mind, it was just an idea," I said. "Anyway, if no one can see what you look like you what do you care?"

"Well, it's like an image thing with me, you know, like to myself," he said. "Imagine, all of a sudden instead of looking neat and trim, I come slouching at the door of the store  in rumpled jeans, long haired and wearing a bandana. I'm even gaining weight. Como que nomas no, you know?"

"Yeah, I guess I can see that," I said, thinking to myself at the same time that I was no different that him. Reading, writing, watching TV or doing busy work, it was always a temptation to reach into the well-stocked (we're all hoarders to  degree) fridge and nibble on something and it wasn't always a celery stalk or something healthy. Exercise, besides pacing the floor, is non-existent. I abandoned that resolution a few days after my New Year's hangover.

"You know," I said. "I hadn't thought of that, but it's true..."

"Who are you talking to?," he asked. "I was talking about me gaining weight, but you seem to be  somewhere else."

"I think I am talking to myself  a lot more than I used to,"' I replied. "And the longer this shit goes one, neither one of us - and I'm not talking about you - is making much sense anymore. I hope this shit's not contagious. It's driving me to drink. I'll see you later."

"Don't spill he wine...'"