In the Candyland streets of Manitou Springs, where Fountain Creek’s gurgling laughter mingles with the grumbles of the political class, a man emerged during the pandemic from a freshly painted blue van down by the river behind City Hall. He was a motivated phantom of bureaucracy that drove through downtown, soliciting arms to pump his preciously promoted vaccines.
Manitou Springs had always been a hub of passionate debate, a microcosm of ideological clashes that played out in its mountainous streets. The town's history, steeped in the effervescent mineral springs that bubbled up from the earth, was both a source of unity and division. The healing waters were a metaphor for the town itself, a place where conflicting currents intermingled, sometimes harmoniously and other times with turbulent force.
Traditionally a city heavily flavored with the hues of Democrats, where illiberalism cuts deep, Manitou Springs bore witness to a wicked transformation fueled by deception and desperation of the political class, those self-serving manipulators of the masses. The political fervor that gripped the community was as palpable as a stiff morning mountain breeze. Online, fights were numerous, blocks daily, and bans routine. Debates raged and heated arguments over local policies for mask mandates to national issues related to COVID19 were also daily and routine.
But for the bureaucrats and the politicians, none of this mattered: They saw the van-man as a performative pawn, a way to curry favor, to win political goodwill from a public terrorized by politicians and bureaucrats. The Vaccine Van was to deliver the salvation of the politically connected.
Wrapped in a nurses’ flowery garb and wearing a green surgical mask concealing his bearded identity, of course, the van-man appeared shortly after dawn. "Come one, come all! No medical history required!" he bellowed on social media. Government bureaucrats were publicly elated, often responding to online questions with directional glee.
The van-man offered a single form, simple and void of prying questions of previous medical histories, to those wanting to be medically injected by a stranger. The form was a waiver, a call to action to not sue the van-man or the city government or the state government or even the manufacturer of the vaccines if something went wrong. “It’s all for the greater good!” declared the van-man.
“If something bad happens, good luck, buddy!” he laughed.
The vaccine Pied Piper channeled his joy of injecting strangers, offering to mend fractured psyches broken from fear and loathing during the pandemic. He was friendly and willing to inject anyone who walked by the van. At sunrise, local joggers waved as they raced past; by noon, he had seen more than a dozen people, mainly elderly people terrified they would die unless they had their boosted shots.
"I ain't a doctor," the van-man often declared, pressing his fingers together. His voice was a mix of boisterousness seeking to quickly end questioning. “The government paid me to drive ‘round here these parts and ask anyone if they wanna get their arms pumped with chemicals in a van down by the river! Sign this waiver!” His sanctuary on wheels became a makeshift clinic, a canvas of disparate lives connected with a common fear. The van bore witness to lockdown boredom, and a longing for normalcy.
But in the sliced corners of well-intentioned deeds, the van-man's actions cast a dark shadow. A reality as cold as the creek's water lurked: No one could be held accountable if an adverse reaction occurred. Vaccine skepticism, fueled by real issues and valid concerns, had threaded its way into the tapestry of local and national politics.
Manitou Springs had revealed itself as a place of contradictions and harmonies. It is a town where the past and present interweave, where political fervor sometimes coexists with natural geographical beauty. In the heart of this small town, the essence of humanity with its complexity, its divisions and passions, shone brightly against the backdrop of Pikes Peak.
As the sun dipped below the granite mountain, casting long shadows and a spell of amber and indigo in the skies, the van-man's journey had reached its conclusion. With a touch of both melancholy and glee, the van-man closed the blue van and slowly drove away, carrying the ethereal essence of his deeds. A caveat lingered in the air, a reminder of the complex reality that lay beneath the surface.
“Frankly,” he began as he drove down Manitou Avenue into the larger city to the east. “In this race for redemption and recklessness, don't ever get a vaccine shot without looking your doctor square in the eye and asking, 'What happens if something goes wrong? What will you do?'"
After a pause and a smile, he offered, “Whatever happens, good luck!”
The van-man had delivered more than vaccines: He had delivered a lesson in personal responsibility, a cautionary tale of the dance between hope and accountability.