Coronavirus

While New York City isn’t Ground Zero for the coronavirus in America, it’s not too far from it. We are in the shit, so to speak, in ways that feel mildly similar to how the city felt in the weeks after 9/11. The vibe back then was utter devastation that at first was mixed with profound sadness, but quickly turned to rage, then defiance. We were going to live like normal human beings again, no matter what, knowing that wasn’t going to happen for months.

This time, who do you get mad at? A bunch of poor-ass, rural Chinese eating crazy shit purchased in “wet” markets? While we probably don’t have markets as unregulated here, I’d bet you’d have your mind blown visiting smaller scale markets in Chinatown and Flushing, Queens. Just down the road from here is a small slaughterhouse that handles live chickens, goats and cows, customers coming in and purchasing meat directly from them. Blame Trump? Go ahead, but despite his initial address to the nation that felt like a sophomore reading off a teleprompter in a high-school TV production class, he’s getting better as this thing goes along and made the smart move of blocking travel to/from China when the rest of the world was dumping on him for doing so. (And I’m no fan!) I’ve turned off much of the media as it’s shady and alarmist by nature, but I can’t be bothered with finger-pointing articles. Now’s not the time.

At first, I resented the NYC restrictions that went into place on Monday morning. I had my last boxing class at the gym with my instructors, Peter and Kid, that morning down around Wall Street. Two of us showed up! I hadn’t realized the gym had already contacted staff and instructors to let them know there would be at least a two-week shutdown (although I suspect it will be longer). Peter worked my ass off, putting me through five rounds of pad work. (We normally get one two-minute round for a class of 8-12 people, two if we’re lucky.) We finished with Peter's patented "500" - 500 stomach reps comprised of five separate 100-series exercises. It was good to work that hard, knowing it would be the last session for awhile. I was pissed to know this was it for a few weeks and left wondering how I was going to stay healthy in the meantime.

Then I walked out on Pine Street and watched some douchebag blow his nose by pressing one finger on a nostril and exhaling a glob of mucus on the sidewalk. It was then I realized, this is all necessary. There’s no escaping people like this, who seem to be living in a permanent vacuum. And we’re all in the same world of shit when it comes to contagion, no matter how careful or slovenly we are.

I promptly went home, found my leather jump rope, the push-up handles in my closet and the yoga mat I never use, realizing I could put together a solid workout on the landlord’s back patio a few times a week. Never mind that I’ll feel like an inmate in Super Max getting his one hour of daylight. I can also go running or walking in various parks in the city, for now. I’m not sure what this “lockdown” implies, but it seems to me that keeping yourself in good physical condition, in open air without being in physical contact with anyone, is a reasonable concept. The way this thing sometimes feels – like a 10-ton weight hanging over my head – I get the impression I’m supposed to be in my apartment 24-7. People are guaranteed to lose their minds living this way; I hope we don’t cross that bridge.

I think most people are out of their “party like it’s the Weimar Republic circa 1920” phase. Officially, they have to be as the bars are closed, but I saw more than a few people jamming the bars last Saturday afternoon and laying it on thick, young and old alike. I also suspect this will be a time of “decadence” in that people will conspire to have clandestine drinking sessions in public places. Because we’re young, wild, free, etc. I’m as sick of the hype and overkill as anyone else, but I’m still not going to tempt fate, especially in a house with elderly women living in the apartments above mine. Why run the risk of ruining or ending their lives so I can live out my Baz Luhrmann movie?

If my experience with hard times in New York holds true, meaning the AIDS epidemic, L.A. Riots (which had a frightening, under-reported effect on NYC), 9/11, the various blackouts, numerous recessions, the 2008 financial collapse, people are going to both lose the thread and come together in ways that will be troubling and uplifting. The vibe I get walking around the streets the past few days is one of mild optimism. People know bad shit is going on, it will get worse, but what can you do except go on living and try to make the best of it. I haven’t seen people losing their shit or causing scenes; the only places I’m sensing that are on the nightly news and at the supermarket. If you want to be “a New Yorker” in a true sense you must do something: live through this. Whether “this” is a depression, the ass falling off the city in the 1970s, the crack and murder epidemics of the 80s … or this pandemic, right now. You get a few dog-assed eras like that under you belt, then you get this place in ways most people never will. I can’t tell you how many people bailed on this city after going through shit times like those noted above. (Of course, some just bailed because they found better options elsewhere, but let’s ignore those people.)

Lately I feel like I’m losing the thread here, like trying to find a job the past few months and wondering if I’m the invisible man. Or feeling like I’m about to be erased at any moment by skyrocketing rents. These aren’t pleasant feelings, and they’re persistent. But really? Compared to the massive doses of fear and paranoia generated over the past few weeks, I’m not feeling overly upset. I can control how I handle the coronavirus because I’ve dealt with worse over the course of years here; I’m having a harder time controlling these other more personal things that in a more subtle way are as destructive as any hurricane or pandemic.

I saw a strange thing yesterday afternoon while walking in Astoria Park, down by the East River. Cars park along the river drive all the time. Guys comparing street rods. Families taking pictures by the bridges or admiring the view of Manhattan. People relaxing and trying to get away from it all for a few minutes. There was this white guy, probably in his 50s, had not aged well, pasty, gray and paunchy, leaning on the side of his muscle car. “Asshole” was the thought bubble that appeared over my head. I caught the smell of skunk weed on the breeze. A guy this age smoking pot in public? Come on, man. Not only that, I could hear “Don’t Believe the Hype” by Public Enemy echoing from a car stereo. Turned out it was his! It was such an incongruous mix of images and details that I had my mind blown. The guy looked like R. Lee Ermey gone to seed. He didn’t say anything as I passed, only scowling and smoking as the dark water of the East River rolled towards the sea, the towers of Manhattan shining in the background.

It took me about 50 yards of walking away from that dude to realize how much I liked him. Maybe an asshole, I thought, but an asshole I could respect at this moment in the city’s history. That guy’s not going anywhere, and he’s going to get through this thing.

My final words on this: if you’re going to hoard anything in these strange days, don’t let it be toilet paper. Let it be sanity. I will forever be at a loss with the “toilet paper” thing. Either people are taking astonishingly large shits out there, or a lot of my fellow countrymen have completely lost their minds. I stand to be corrected, but it sounds like many of us would rather sit.