Flu Do Something to You

By Steve Eskew


Am I warped? Yes, thank God, yes I am. Snicker if you fancy, but my obsessive/compulsive quirks and my vast array of infamous phobias have rescued Eskew countless times. As for defense mechanisms? They be my bitches. 


Being an insufferable egotist ya see, I introspect a lot. Granted, I’m a coward, but I’m a courageous coward. For example, I boldly surrender my body to be vaccinated. ’Tis my only masochistic streak. 


Loaded with phobias, I’m completely devoid of one common dread–– trypanophobia, or fear of needles and vaccinations.


Call me a sicko but I hate feeling sick, so I was truly eager for my first coronavirus vaccine last winter. And glory be, when my testicles failed to swell up and I didn’t become impotent, I opted for the second shot.


Waiting for my COVID-19 booster shot floods my noggin with sweet anticipation. Meanwhile, my arm still aches with great pleasure from my recent flu shot. Inoculate me, inoculate me. Who the hell wants pneumococcal pneumonia? Or shingles? 


Innately neurotic, I was the kid who was first in line for his smallpox and polio vaccines when I was still just learning to crawl. Honest infant!


In truth, my thrill of vaccinations emerged from my fear of even the slightest danger. My lily-livered cautions have extended to countless areas. 


The upside is that each phobia functions kinda like a vaccination itself to keep me safe. Namely my fear of fire. Due to the gift of that phobia, I check each cord, knob and switch 16 times before leaving our house. No fires so far.


Similarly, my claustrophobia has operated as a blessing, keeping me off elevators during the pandemic and flu seasons. My spurts of agoraphobia have encouraged me to seek seclusion, far away from people spewing deadly droplets.


Such offbeat salvation-oriented bents run in our family. My brother Stosh, an incurable germaphobe, has always wiped his groceries off with a bleach solution before putting them in the pantry or fridge. 


My sister Sassy thinks that’s silly (“too much work”). She sprays all purchases down with ethyl alcohol. As for moi, I simply place all purchased items into a sterilization chamber. What’s weird about that?


I suspect ‘twas a bad case of influenza itself that initiated my family’s fanatical reactions. That was way back in the years before flu shots existed. 


Flu do something to you, I tell ya. I’m pretty sure that I at least passed for sane once. I swear I didn’t lose my marbles until I contracted the Spanish flu. Or was it the Hong Kong flu? Damn it, was it 1918 or 1968? 


Okay, so my memory has dimmed a bit but I can definitely recall with glee the exact date of every shot I ever got. Furthermore, I haven’t the slightest fear of experiencing a bad reaction to a vaccination. Vaccines arouse an erotic pain-and-pleasure within me. Shh.


No guts, no glory? Sorry, I’ve always passed on the excitement of risky misadventures. No participation in collision and contact sports for me, thanks. I’m self-immunized from being clubbed with a hockey stick or bashed in the head while playing football. I don’t even attend dangerous spectator sporting events in which balls, cars or planes play a threat. 


Furthermore, if I’m in a raging argument with someone, my immutable immunity to danger kicks in like a vaccine safeguard. I flatly refuse to discuss bigly differences on solitary roofs, planes or boats. And, I’m not about to thrash out our contrarieties in some deep, dark, deserted forrest. 


In short, I harbor inborn phobias of potential sufferings. And vaccinations, whether literal or figurative, do indeed protect me.


I’m not exactly afraid of dying, but I’m certainly in no rush. My most noteworthy character contradiction lies within my one-time-only anti-vaxxer moment––I’ve made it abundantly clear in my living will that I want no vaccine to assist my final transition. What if it isn’t actually my time to go?


I may well have a touch of what comic Johnny Carson termed as “You got the wrong guy-a-phobia.” That’s a fear that God will mistake me for someone else and call me Home too early. Oy.


I’m hoping my final shot involves a lead overdose. At the top of my bucket list lies the glorious desire to be shot to death by a jealous husband at age 106.

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