I stood waiting and waiting in that endless line — shifting my weight, bouncing on the balls of my feet — enduring a queue with more twists and turns than an episode of PBS Masterpiece Theater.

I was at last getting my COVID-19 vaccine and that afternoon under a forgiving early-April sun, I felt a part of something bigger than myself; lined up alongside my fellow mankind, yet irked by the individual man and woman all around me.

After an entire year of cocooning, seeing no one, I was suddenly seeing everyone; my fellow Las Vegas residents, masks on, unwashed and as-of-yet unvaccinated.

It was a people-watching paradise that sometimes made you want to hide your eyes.

Like the guy with the Carrot Top hair and the ZZ-Top beard sprouting out from under his facial covering like a weed from hell, and the balding Lothario who sported a T-shirt that read “Would you DO me? (I’d DO you!)”

I pulled up to the Las Vegas Convention Center just about noon, in time for a 12:30 p.m. appointment. I should have figured: This was no meeting hall at your local park but a building that sprawled for 3.2 million square feet.

Sheesh.

I walked through the crowded parking lot toward the center’s front door, thinking that maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all, but no, a guard pointed toward the end of a line that seemed to snake for miles and, rumor had it, had already reach San Diego.

And so I waited. 

Turns out, my fellow Americans haven’t changed much since those pre-COVID-19 days.

One thing I noticed that very few people made idle conversation with the person standing next to them. Most stood gaping at their smartphones screens, their eyes and brains seduced by the narcotic of meaningless data.

The silence was broken by the woman who began crying to a guard, saying she’d forgotten about her appointment and didn’t have time to reschedule and wanted to bolt to the front of the line.

Little chance of that.

I was content to wait. I’d heard all the stories about people lying and cheating and pushing aside the elderly to increase their chances at getting the vaccine at the earliest possible date. I’d spent many months not flying or eating out and don’t playing on doing so for the year 2021, vaccinated or not.

And if this was the humanity who waited for me out in the world, my decision remains sane and sound.

After a half-hour in the bright sun, I had finally reached the front door. 

This will all be over soon, I figured.

Not.

Once inside, the line continued inside a mammoth civic cavern for what seemed like forever, so far that I could not make out the end. People bolted for the bathroom, asking their line-mate to hold their place.

And when you got to the end, you merely tuned around and came back again.

As proof of identification, you needed your driver’s license and appointment code. I was ready wit both, until I looked down and — Gasp! — realized that my phone battery was nearly dead.

I still, repeating my code in my head like a mantra, or some kid getting ready for a test.

Finally, I reached the registration desk, told to enter the next mammoth room.

No sweat.

Until worker at the head of the line asked me the question that made my mouth drop.

Did I want the Johnson-and-Johnson vaccine or the Pfizer one?

Say what?

“The Johnson-and-Johnson is a one-shot deal,” he said. He motioned to the room at large. “That way, you don’t have to come back and face this a second time.”

Heck, I’d come for a jab and been rocked by a roundhouse punch. This was quite possibly the most important decision I will make this decade and I was caught flat-footed.

Talk about unwashed and unschooled.

It was downright ignorant.

I got in the Johnson-and-Johnson line, starting to sweat. I tried consulting Dr. Google but my phone was dead.

All the time I’d waited for this test and I hadn’t taken even a moment to study.

And then, there I was, sitting at the injection table, a woman ready to give me my shot.

“Wait,” I said. “Am I making the right decision?”

She’d heard the questions before.

She calmly explained that the one-short deal with maybe 65% successful, but if you did manage to contract the virus, it wouldn’t be so bad.

The two-shot deal had more than a 90% success rate.

Well, Hell’s Bells, get me into that line!

I waited another half-hour and winced when the needle went in.

I waltzed back to the car, feeling as though I’d made the right decision.

Now I’m due back in three weeks; same time, same day of the week.

This time, I’ll know what to expect.

I’ll leave the bloody iPhone at home.

And bring a book.