Masked Illusions

It might stop the flu, but it probably won’t.

About one in ten, maybe one in twenty, people in Morelia are donning the tapaboca, otherwise known as The Mask. There doesn’t seem to be a distinction between social class and The Mask. I look at the Masked People, wondering if they’re already the sick ones or are going to be the survivors. They seem to be looking at the Unmasked Ones with the disdain reserved for those who regularly have unprotected sex with complete strangers. Silently chortling about how ineffective a mask pulled down past its owner’s chin can be, particularly a disposable mask worn for a week or so at a time, I walk on, still Mask-free, taking my chances. The price of masks has tripled in the past day. If it gets really bad, which it isn’t, I’ll go cowgirl, tying a handkerchief over my mouth and nose. I’m not going to let a piece of paper get between the world and me.

Putting a clean pair of Jockey briefs over one’s head could be just as effective.

 

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