Last summer, in a local park, a group of college students gathered for orientation. They did team-building exercises as the sun trekked over the trees. They held hands in a circle wearing identical red shirts. Falling down on cue, still they held hands. This is how you trust each other, said the group leader. They lay there on the ground, fingers clasped, until someone said it was time for lunch.
~
Steps away from the entrance he stops. He mouths, and I can see it clearly from where I’m sitting, he mouths five words as he turns around, “Shit. I forgot my mask.”
~
Sorry, my mistake. It’s OK, she says, really. But this really sounded to me like a question. Really? I used to worry my writing would land the same way. I didn’t have much conflict in my work. My personal issues were sparse, at arm’s length. I fear death, I’ve battled depression, I abuse alcohol. My dad is getting toward the end of his life. But I’ve experienced little trauma.
One of our dogs died when she was stung by a bee and I didn’t get her to the vet in time. But these were the heights of my struggles, not trendy in nature, not like the problems people write about in the essays and throughout the poems I see getting published in the journals I admire.
I was writing about nature and space-time and travel and the occasional marital tiff. Then the virus came along, COVID-19. First in China, then Iran, soon an outbreak in Italy. Then it was everywhere, and since then a lot of things have changed.
~
The baseball season has been put on hold. Three months ago, when Major League Baseball announced the indefinite pause, the teams were still in the midst of their preseason, colloquially known as Spring Training. The regular season was slated to have started in late March but it’s not clear when—or if!—there will be baseball this year. I’d like to find some sort of silver lining in this but I’m at a loss to find some benefit to no baseball.
Have I learned how not to look for a baseball game to listen to or to watch? No, because I haven’t chosen not to watch baseball. It’s not a sacrifice, I haven’t given up anything willingly. If it came back, I’d start in with it right away. I miss reading while listening to a game. I miss trying to tune in games at night while I’m out in the middle of the country. Baseball has been the basis of communication between my brother and me. He has a baseball writing website. He’s gone dark, one of the worst elements of the pandemic for me. There is no substitute for baseball, no recompense.
~
Where did I put that thing? It has to be in here somewhere. I’ve never brought it back into the house. Maybe I threw it behind the seat? Or maybe the kids were playing with it, even though I’ve asked them to stop. Perhaps I stashed it in the console, along with the sunglasses, the pens, the motion sickness tabs, and this notebook. Or maybe it’s hanging on the rearview mirror, hidden in plain sight, like a rabbit’s foot, a pair of dice, or an air freshener that wore out many moons ago.
~
Things that are crumpled: bedspread, sauteed greens, the economy, mask on the ground, the hours of last night in my memory, recyclables once tipped into the collection truck, an old friendship, the silence, a grounded butterfly’s wing, used latex-free gloves, plastic bag in my pocket that once held oatmeal raisin cookies, my stash of reusable cloth bags now outlawed from use at the grocery, deleted email, used coffee filters, my previous laptop after an unfortunate run-in with the suddenly vital videoconferencing app known as Zoom, various articles of clothing that are now just laundry.
~
Public health emergency is the new Constitution.
~
Sleep inertia, default sleep. You’re as happy asleep as when you are awake, at least as happy while asleep, sometimes more. It means something’s wrong. Like you can’t help but eat pretzels and ice cream. Only now, with the world in abeyance, there’s nothing you can do to change why it is, what it is that allows you to prefer to lie flat, not conscious, in the dark, doing nothing. What do you do when you face this impasse? You sleep on it.
~
People, when they pull into the grocery store parking lot, take a little longer to get out of the car. Maybe in some cases it’s one of the same old reasons—checking something on their phone, looking again at the shopping list, or seeing if a question has been answered by text.
But now the delay most often has to do with the mandated mask. I’ve been in plenty of grocery stores since this all started, but even more interesting is what I see when I sit in the car outside the grocery while my wife goes inside to shop. Some people prefer to put their mask on in the mirror. I’ve seen both the rearview and the flip-down visor mirrors used this way. Do I have the straps right? Is my hair caught in one of the loops? How silly do I look with this thing on? What character do I most resemble?
The man who had forgotten his mask has retrieved it, but hasn’t put it on yet. In a moment just outside the entrance to the store, he stops, stretches the elastic, pulls it back over his head, cups the frontispiece, sets it right, and plunges in.
~
I still don’t know what a lyric essay is, and it still doesn’t matter. I have a feeling it’s something I am capable of writing but only without knowing I’m doing it, i.e. involuntary. Breathing, a first language. The following program is a production of tomorrow. The floor creaks overhead. Your friend is hiding behind the door, creeping in the hallway. Don’t go in there. In the tall grass, in the rare grass that wasn’t mowed last week. Say but don’t go. Imply, infer, imagine. An honorary document, an orchestrated appearance. Drinking songs. Raise a glass and sing along—with caution! I put tape on my thumb, and under that tape a powerful magnet. Under the magnet beats the pulse of yesteryear. So faint I can almost forget it.
~
Two people walking along an access road on the other side of the interstate, the bottoms of their legs, their feet obscured by grass. Is there a sidewalk under them or do they stride straight-through knee-high green? Is the state this prescient, or are they so determined?
~
Ah, fuck. Why does everything have to get ruined by everything else?
~
The clean, delivered quiet of sleep. The hand I can shake. I thought I’d tired of its touch, forlorned of its comfort. But I yearn to be invisible. I want to hibernate. Or bromulate, like a milksnake. Off and on my entire adult life, since high school, I’ve had these bouts. There never was going to be a permanent escape. Aside from semi-regular escapes to the rural comfort of Missouri’s cattle country, the T cell toolkit I’ve made consists of seeing a few friends (outside, and at a distance), running on the streets and sidewalks (lo, these crowded streets), watching The Great British Baking Show (again), and listening to podcasts (many of them about the virus).
~
Lawn bags—stuffed then dumped—lie like bleached, bloated torsos aside the road. Plastic trash in the trees, tawdry streamers on call for a party that has been repeatedly postponed. Roped-off playground. Caution, Caution. Every car passes me today. Every truck, every van. I’m driving to Illinois to see my family. What are you going to do, governor, read me my rights?
My parents’ marriage turns fifty. We’re all taking the risk. There’s wind all around, cotton candy clouds, the lush green grass of a cool spring replete with regular rain. A pedestrian in a mask walks the long footbridge crossing above the highway, walking in the direction away from Barnes-Jewish Hospital, the area’s largest employer (edging out Scott Air Force Base and Wal-Mart).
Up ahead, another body-sized item lies discarded beside the road, in the median up against the concrete. Something ungracefully fills the thick green bag. Is it the work of a lawn crew or a local mafioso? Even though I’m going slower than everyone else, I’ll still never know.
Next, a hulking midtown redevelopment plant. Once it was a factory making auto parts, everything from spark plugs to brake pads. The new vision is partially complete, lurching into an impossible, unfathomed future. Everyone in charge of the redevelopment agreed it would be the next grand meeting place. It would hold a food hall, a movie theater, a bowling alley, a multitude of stores, an ice cream stand, you name it. Now its entire premise stands astride both law and decorum.
~
Charge the paddles… fourth stimulus!
~
At two a.m., done-in again by a failed escape from my pants. Overhead, my wife rolls in bed.
~
Yeah, I’ve been depressed lately. So what? There’s no baseball. My friends are afraid to get close to me. Starting in the latter half of March, on through April, and now for all of May, plans turn to dust. Businesses are failing, accounts are down. And no doubt many other Americans, many other citizens the world around have it worse than I do. Guilt even in this reduced life, brutality in the decadence.
But I’m not without a response. I’m not just going to sleep the rest of my life away. No, I’m going to—at the risk of defined insanity—I’m going to try again to do something that has largely failed these last many weeks. I’m going to make a plan. I’m going to hold a party, some kind of party. I’ve got a nice garage out back, what once was the studio where I painted. It’s largely cleared out, so even though it’s only a two-car garage it feels pretty large. I thought maybe some of us could get together and paint in it. My wife has offered to cook. Perhaps we’ll even buy a grill, special for the occasion.
I won’t invite a lot of people. My wife and I make two, so the invite list probably won’t be more than ten. If everyone attends, that would put us over the ten-person limit. So, hey, get here early. If you’re the eleventh person to show up you’re S-O-L. Send me a postcard from the curb.
~
Another low point. They come out of nowhere. Replacing the occasional wave of nausea, the occasional wave of depression. Another nadir. Is there a plural for nadir? It occurs to me now that there can be more than one. Are these the depths? How do you know without going lower?
It’s overcast, rain all day. I took a trip to the big-box hardware store. It felt like stepping foot into some internment camp, semi-apocalyptic, a horrible wide scale psych experiment gone terribly wrong, and no one has a fix. I never thought I’d be out in public wearing a mask over my mouth, taking an extra look at those who weren’t, feeling toward them some grotesque mix of anger, pity, envy, and shame. What a freak show we’ve become.
~
Restarting to the tune of caution. There was a wreck. No, it’s not been fully cleared. It never will be. Beginning again despite the grave warnings of experts. In late spring, we are warned against the coldest winter. No, I wouldn’t cram myself into a crowded bar just after re-opening. But, then again, I wouldn’t have crammed myself into that bar before, not unless someone had dragged me there. What is it I’m deprived of? I would gather to mourn the dead. I would convene with friends who likewise know and accept the risks.
I will continue to wear a mask in the grocery store. I will not wear a mask in the dentist’s chair. I would gladly sit down at home to watch a baseball game played in a stadium empty of fans. Heck, I would go to a baseball game, if I had half a row to myself. I would run a 10k but I would not wear a mask. I will wear a mask in the hardware store, big box or little. I would swim in a pool. I would go to the indoor, municipal gym but I would not wear a mask. I will wash my hands as often as ever. I will cut my hair. I will cut my father’s hair again.
I would like to shake a person’s hand but for a while longer yet I will be content to knock elbows, if that means seeing that friend again. If that friend so desires I will be content to keep such a distance as to be outside of elbow-knocking range, six feet, ten feet, whatever, if that is what it will take to see that friend again. I will videoconference for business but I will not videoconference with friends—there is no methadone for personal contact. I would like to hug many several people but we do not all need to start hugging at once.
I have seen family and I will continue to see family, legally or illegally. I have traveled in my car a hundred and thirty miles, crossing into and out of several counties. I have traveled for business, I have traveled for pleasure. I would travel by plane, wearing a mask. I would carry the maximum allowed amount of hand sanitizer.
I will continue taking zinc. I will go to a sit-down restaurant but not just yet, not within the next month. I will continue to get food delivered. My wife and I will continue to pick up food at the curb.
I will take as deep a breath as I can, immediately upon waking. I will monitor my temperature. If I do not quite feel right, you will not see me. I will take allergy pills to lessen my sneezing. I will walk in the park not wearing a mask. I will not smoke in public. I would rather not breathe in anyone’s secondhand smoke. If this keeps up much longer I will buy a pack of cigarettes.
I miss any and all sports. I miss the Indian buffet. Fuckit, I would go to the Indian buffet right now, if it were open. I’d grab all the spoons and heap all of the food onto my plate. I don’t care how many people are in the restaurant, I want all the naan. In lieu of that, I will continue to visit the neighborhood fishmonger, wearing a mask.
I miss camping at the state parks. If I don’t get on a river within thirty days, I will miss the river. I miss the sight of a crowd. I miss seeing a crowd from a distance. I miss seeing a crowd from a distance and wondering why there is a crowd. I miss knowing that people are going out to their favorite bars and venues to hear live music.
I miss the bustle of the college campus. I miss the library. I miss browsing books. I miss returning books. I miss hearing them land with a thud just after I drop them in the slot.
I still have some books from the library. If things were normal they would be way overdue. But I’ve not heard anything from the library. I guess the books are mine for now. Until this is over. And even though I’m not reading them, I don’t have any reason to say goodbye.
~
I sign out of the chat and I look both ways, just like I’m crossing the street.
~
I guess the time—3:10? Then touch my finger to the screen. 3:04. Earlier—was it 2:30? No, it was 2:49. I have been awake since 12:36. I worried I’d forgotten to close the trunk of the car. In my undershorts I walked through my parents’ house and looked out front. Trunk closed. Yes, I suppose that’s right. I do remember closing it, I remember that now. It was still light when I went out there to close it.
I’m over here helping out a little. I drove my dad to one of his radiation appointments. When I went out to close the trunk, the day was winding down, late May, lots of light, old rain still standing in spots, a firm breeze. There was pot roast in my belly, strong words echoing about the kitchen air as I did the dishes, my mom with a towel in her hand doing the drying, my dad on the couch, phone in hand, half-watching an old western, which I only caught a snippet of: a young boy fires a large revolver at a native American man, the shot misses, a crowd of natives laughs, the boy responds with a warning, ‘Leave my mother alone!’
~
The sound of—best guess—a helicopter, as I’m reading an essay in an esteemed quarterly. Touch screen: 3:19. The dog sleeps, occasionally dreaming, acting it out with snarls, yelps, quivers of his legs. My vodka body is at peace but I wonder about the chopper. Loud and low. At this time of the night’s morning? I assume it carries an organ, fresh from death, heading in the direction of the (still) living.
~
Train in the night, touch screen, 3:32. Am I going to stay up into the light? And what then? Rise, with coffee? Or go back to sleep? The closer I get—to what?—the less it seems to matter. Train whistle blares, the train presses on, the whistle blares again. All roads are crossings.
~
The restaurants have reopened. Some of them. In the middle of the night I’m hungry for them. I’ve thought about Mexican food—Mi Ranchito is the place in U City my wife and I like to go to. Just now, before I started writing this, I was reading an essay by a Vietnamese refugee, the story about how she fled Vietnam young, with her father, but the mother wasn’t invited. The essay mentioned food. One thing leads to another and now my mind has drifted also to Mai Lee, a Vietnamese restaurant my wife and I used to visit. They serve fried spring rolls, with plenty of fresh cilantro, and large leaves of lettuce that you can use as a wrap.
Legally we could go there, as of today, to the actual restaurant, a mere twelve hours from now. The waiters would be masked, no doubt, but what etiquette is expected of the patrons? Do you wear a mask into the restaurant, dropping it only to eat? What about ordering a beer, casually sipping it? I am picturing us there, entering in masks, the restaurant at 25 or 50% capacity, all the other would-be patrons still staying away.
The scene I picture is tinged with morgue-like tones. Even though the restaurant is open, we’d be walking into some place we’d never been before. It wouldn’t be a complete celebration, there’d be grief in the undeniable difference. To go out to eat would be to acknowledge the loss. And as hungry as I am—for those rolls!—I’m not sure I can do it, I’m not sure I’m ready yet.
~
Sleepy. Touch screen. 4:03. Good batting average. Drink water, pet dog, sleep.
I wrote this essay in 2020. It was first published in the Spring 2022 edition of Barely South Review. Here is a link to that publication.
The Writing of John B. Randall 