A man in a mask sat in a chair in the performing arts center parking lot. He said to wait 20 minutes and then to walk to the blue tent.
At the blue tent, there was a man in a mask who pointed to two people in masks at a table. These two looked at my drivers license, put a yellow band around my wrist, gave me a form to fill out, and told me to give it to the people over there.
Over there, a woman in a mask took my form, checked my yellow band, took my temperature, and told me to go in through the main doors. A man in a mask pointed me to the other end of the lobby. A woman in a mask looked at my wrist band and directed me to another woman in a mask who directed me to another door where yet another woman in a mask stood.
This woman was wearing scrubs. I was getting close. The walls were lined with numbered tables, suitably spaced. There were people with rolled up sleeves sitting beside each table and nurses administering jabs. I stood on a sticker on the floor six feet behind the person in front of me. 45 seconds later, the woman in scrubs pointed me to Table 2.
“Just a little pin prick,” the Table 2 woman said. She put a bandaid on my arm, gave me a CDC vaccination card, and directed me to the far side of the room.
I listened to several more people in masks and followed long, yellow arrows on the floor down a hallway to the auditorium where yet more people in masks gave instructions. I sat in Row 15 suitably distanced from the others who had just got their jabs.
A woman stood next to our row and gave instructions from behind a muffling mask. After fifteen minutes, she said we were free to go.
Altogether, it was a well-masked and well-oiled machine.