Masks, Walls and Security in a Divided Country

“Those things are finally good for something: They keep your face warm.” A woman is smoking a cigarette outside the Four Deuces Saloon in Tombstone, Arizona, where the world’s most famous gunfight, 139 years ago, still keeps the town alive, its shops and businesses catering mostly to tourists, though almost none are around tonight. My wife Laurel and I, wearing masks, laugh and say something about the cold: The sun has gone down and it’s in the 40s. We had just arrived in town and, seeing the saloon’s large outside patio decked with garlands, decided to stop for a drink. But there is no one outside, save the woman smoking. To order, we’ll have to enter the saloon.

“Oh, you don’t have to wear those in here.” The bartender — young woman, friendly — greets us with information that is already clear from a glance at the patrons. “But whatever you’re comfortable with.” We leave them on and feel some stares. We take the drinks out to the patio where a sign notifies us that no weapons are allowed — the town likes its gunplay staged, three times a day at the O.K. Corral, for an admission fee. A song comes on over the speaker: “Christmas in Dixie,” by Alabama.