Part I: The Tsunami Is Coming
The news reports from China started catching my eye in late January. On January 30, I recall my first conversation with a coworker about the new virus.
“This is more dangerous than Ebola,” I told her as we rode the B train down to Lower East Side. “Very contagious, and it travels by air. With Ebola, you need to really touch the sick person. With this thing, maybe all you need to do is sit next to them on a train like this, while they cough all over the place. Or just breathe on you. It will be hard to stop it from spreading.”
Keeping a wary eye on exotic foreign news is useful. But there is also a lot of garbage and fake news out there, so you need to read many diverse sources. It takes sifting through piles of useless, or deliberately false, shit to dig up a nugget of gold.
Nobody is perfect. Early on, I fell prey to punditry about facemasks being unnecessary. An Asian superstition, they said. The mask won’t save you, everyone just breathes around it. Also, we shouldn’t hoard them because medical workers need them. So I didn’t run out to buy any, before they disappeared from the shelves of every store. The path of least resistance is to believe the viewpoint that affirms your inherent desire to do nothing.
In retrospect, what a load of bullshit. If masks are useless, how come the medical workers need them? The lack of internal logic should have been obvious. Maybe the Asians were onto something. Much later, I read a succinct summary of the masks’ utility from some Hong Kong dude:
“Wearing it is mildly helpful in avoiding some droplets. It also prevents you from touching your bare face, which is important. Finally, it protects others if you are the one who has the virus.”
By Valentine’s Day, I was convinced the threat was serious and was coming to New York, if it wasn’t here already. And that eventually most of us were going to get infected. But it was comforting to hear that most cases turned out to be mild.
In any event, there was some time left to party and have fun!
That Sunday, we had an opulent dinner at Blue Hill at Stone Barns, which left us in a food coma.
I started the winter pool league season with a three-match winning streak.
Went to the city to see my friends’ crying baby, then had a few smoky Guinness pints with the rest of the Brooklyn posse at The Alibi.
Hand fed raspberries to my aging Dad in his Astoria nursing home. More about him later.
All while fully aware that this golden age was coming to an abrupt end.
“They will close all these places down soon,” I predicted to my former team captain at a crowded tavern. “You cannot have people hanging out close together in an enclosed space like this. All these bartenders better have a Plan B for another job.”
“Too bad their other job is being a struggling actor, and those gigs will be gone too,” he winked at me, as he bellied up to the bar. “I will have a Coronavirus with a side of Lyme disease, please!”
The Nets game on Sunday, March 8 was the last big crowd event our family attended, followed by meeting local friends at a German beer hall. Some people were already starting to elbow bump in lieu of handshakes. But most folks just carried on as always, hugging, kissing, sharing vapes and bumming cigarettes. Brooklyn was still living its usual life.
***
I met him back in February while playing pool at Tres Amigos, my favorite bar in Port Chester where I was often the only non-Spanish speaker in the building. It never mattered. These guys just loved shooting pool. And handing their friends — sometimes me — a Corona from their own icy bucket.
I always tried to return the favor. I was wondering what will happen to their jobs. A landscaper, a construction worker, a car repair man.
“La ultima, or donde sea?,” I used my limited Spanglish to confirm the rules of the game with a balding round player wearing a grey hoodie. I had not seen him at Amigos before, so it was worth making sure. The top of his skull was shiny, but some clumps of hair still poked out around the sides. Odd-looking fellow, I thought to myself.
“No last pocket, donde sea” he shook my hand. “Cory.”
“Like Cory Booker?,” I laughed. “I am V. Nice to meet you.”
“I don’t follow politicians much,” he grinned. “Useless people.”
Agreed.
Cory quickly made five solids, getting perfect position for the next one each time. I was saved, for the moment, by his next closest victim (the 7 ball) being trapped amidst three of my balls. (He had tried breaking it out on a couple of his prior shots, but each time the cue ball barely skidded past the shit pile.) Unfazed, he played an ambitious two-way bank shot on the 3 ball, missing the bonanza but leaving me with no good offensive options.
This may be lopsided, I thought. I am five balls behind, and my first shot will have to be a safety. Time to bear down. I tapped my 13 ball, and the cue ball nestled on the rail. But Cory still managed to sink his 3 into the far corner with a fancy kick shot.
“You thought you hid well, V.” And a trash talker to boot. “But I am very crafty.”
“You’ve been playing for a while, I see.”
“Yeah, I’ve been around for a long time.” He puffed on his Juul, let out a ring of smoke and chuckled. His laugh was also strange – a cackle that resembled a cough. “If you don’t mind me saying, your defensive game has some holes in it.”
The trapped 7 was still my last hope. After that, the 8 was wide open in the middle of the table. As most cocky shooters do, Cory tried the impossible, forcing the ball where it didn’t want to go. The miss opened the door for my big comeback run.
“And I see you touch your face a lot,” Cory kept pontificating, trying to distract me as I worked my way around the table. “Before every shot, you rub your nose. I thought the doctors on TV said, don’t do that no more.”
“Here’s to Corona,” I took a swig of my beer, sizing up the 8 ball. “I don’t worry about these things. All of us will get it anyway, and most of us will survive. You still gotta live your life.”
And then I choked on the 8. Classic!
“You keep saying that, then you might not have a life to live,” Cory cackled again, returning to the table to finish me off. But then, instead of slicing the 8 in the side pocket, he inexplicably chose the corner – and scratched in the side.
Was he really that dumb, did he not care much, or was he fucking with me? We will never know. The night was still young, with plenty of Coronas left to drink.
The next weekend, Tres Amigos burned down under suspicious circumstances. The pool crowd migrated to the Polish club a few blocks away, but it was not the same anymore. My cozy world was starting to fall apart.
***
Wednesday, March 11 .
Last time working in the Manhattan office. It was sparsely populated for a Wednesday, but quite a few still showed up for a departure party happy hour. (No more than 25 people allowed.) I was mindful to avoid handshakes (fist bumps only) and not picking up finger food from communal platters. On the way home, I stuffed my backpack with a few notebooks on active matters. I was not planning on coming back to the office any time soon.
Thursday, March 12.
Last day in school for Ilan. I worked from home.
Last trip to Manhattan, for a Women’s Day dinner with the Russian posse that was planned long ago. Had second thoughts about going. But, what the hell. Last party in the Big Apple.
Only 95 reported cases in the city so far. Of course, nobody was getting tested because there were no tests available, so the numbers felt bogus. Also, it takes a few days for the disease to present itself. What all this really means is, there are probably a few thousand infected people walking around. Chances are, I will be able to avoid coming close to any of them. But after tonight, no more trips to Manhattan. It’s obvious that the virus will keep spreading and the city is a natural cesspool for it.
Took the 5 pm train from Rye into the city.
Eerie train, not many people. Only fools like me who must not have gotten the memo yet. I shouldn’t be on this train. The city is becoming dangerous.
Surreal half-empty Grand Central Station, with doors to 42nd Street propped open. So we don’t have to push the handles. Nice touch.
Avoided 42nd Street. Too many people. Walked to the West Side along 39th Street. Mindful of anyone coming close to me. Stay the fuck away!
But some folks were still sitting in restaurants and bars. Really? Then again, I was about to do the same.
Lovely dinner in a tiny restaurant. Hearty Uzbek and Kazakh food. Each table had a little hand sanitizer bottle. (Another item that suddenly ran out in most stores.) Nice try, but your business might be toast soon anyway.
On the way back to Grand Central, stopped by Dave’s Tavern to play pool. Felt wrong, shouldn’t be in a Manhattan bar anymore. Light crowd for a Thursday night. The diehards. Don’t shake anybody’s hand. Pool table broken. Time to head home.
Friday the 13th.
Last dinner out in a restaurant, at Ruby’s in Rye with an old friend. Half empty on a Friday night! Ilan went to the Y to play basketball, his last time playing sports with other kids for the foreseeable future. Alicia stopped by a wine bar for a last hurrah after dropping him off.
Nightcap: shooting pool at a mellow bar in Greenwich. Sokol Club was perfect for this – few patrons, lots of space. Ran into Cory again. He had more musings to offer.
“Strange country, America. We have enough money to bomb anyone half way around the globe, but don’t have enough facemasks for our own people.”
During basketball, Ilan got knocked to the ground and passed out. Concussion? Fuck. Let’s check it out. Alicia took him to ER at Greenwich Hospital. All turns out to be OK. And they both got facemasks just for showing up. Score!
Saturday, March 14.
Sat the family down to talk about the future. This shit is real. Sooner or later, we will catch it. One of us could die, although we are not that old and the odds are in our favor. Here’s where our money is invested. Here’s where the canned food is.
No more hanging out with other people. No more inviting people over to our house. This will suck. Many people will lose jobs. Financially, we should be OK. We must stick together. If you start feeling sick, let everyone know immediately.
7 pm. Ilan is weak, goes to bed. This doesn’t normally happen at 7 pm.
12 am. Ilan wakes up and vomits. Chills, slight cough, ear pain. Temperature? 103. Shit. Call the doc.
“For his age, we are not seeing coronavirus much. Could be bacterial.” Tylenol. Prescribes antibiotics.
I also have a slight, but annoying, cough and itchy throat. No temperature, though.
Wednesday, March 18.
After a few days of sore throat and elevated temperature, Ilan’s symptoms went away. (Whatever that was.) My cough subsided too. Maybe we were just being paranoid? Even during pandemics, common colds and ear infections are not cancelled.
Life in quarantine settled into a new normal. We cooked yummy food, drank good wine, played pool after dinner. Went to the deserted beach and to the Marshlands, avoiding others.
We tried to minimize shopping trips, but every once in a while still went to Whole Foods or Stop & Shop. Every supermarket felt like a death trap. Very few facemasks, nobody wearing gloves, crowds of people stocking up for the apocalypse. A run on toilet paper? Come on.
News from the outside world: not encouraging. New York City shut down yesterday. (But not before Mayor de Blasio snuck in his last workout at the gym. Leadership!) Kenny Rogers died. The whole economy is grinding to a halt. The future of mergers and acquisitions, my bread and butter, looks doubtful. Time to toggle to bankruptcy work?
Sunday, March 22.
Alicia developed a mild cough. 99.8 temperature. Here we go again? Just when we thought we were in the clear, nine days since our last time going out to bars! Or was it the supermarket visits?
Her cough and temperature stayed mild for the next few days.
Eventually, I started coughing too. But no temperature. I kept checking the thermometer every few hours. Alicia stayed in a steady range between 99 and 100.3 – clearly sick, but nothing terrible.
Lots of conference calls. I was presenting on bankruptcy topics and rallying the troops. Ilan was kicking ass at remote learning on Google classrooms. At least everything seemed OK with him. Life went on.
If only this suspicious cough would go away…
* * *
My next encounter with Cory was in a dream. We were paddling a boat down the Potomac, past Roosevelt Island, a reminder of college days.
“You’re worried about that cough, huh.” That’s when it dawned on me. He coughs like me.
“Well, when there is a pandemic out there and two people in the house are coughing, yeah, it’s cause for concern.”
“But if you are so worried, how come you went to a bar that Friday and hung out with people? And you and your wife keep going to the supermarket without gloves on, touching things all over the place.”
“We take calculated risks. I didn’t think the virus was widespread back then, so just decided to have a last night out. And with supermarkets… look, you cannot live on canned tuna every day, and there are no delivery windows available unless you want to stay up until 2 am to get online. Good point about the gloves, though.”
“Yeah, like you said the other night: Gotta live your life. Well, keep it up.” He smiled and faded away in the fuzzy Potomac mist.
* * *
Friday, March 27.
Woke up feeling hot in the middle of the night. Went downstairs to check my own temperature. 99.7. Game on. Fucking Cory.
Alicia woke up around noon with 102.8. During the day, she got worse, losing her appetite. Her coughing was now deeper, more violent. This was getting serious.
“Maybe we should sleep in different places now,” I had another Eureka moment, long after the horse had left the barn. I am not a fan of the guest bedroom downstairs, but this seemed like the right move.
I still had another webcast to record on Saturday. I warned my other panelist to be ready to go solo, in case things fell apart for me on the home front. There was little doubt now about what we were facing.
Normally, my colds start with a sore throat and sneezing. Then comes the runny nose and congestion. Maybe some fever, a couple of days of weakness, followed by recovery and some lingering cough as my lungs clear out the mucus for a week or two afterwards.
This thing was different. No runny nose, no sneezing, no congestion. Just a persistent cough, a fever, and an odd feeling of dry heat in my throat. As if the Arizona desert was baking my trachea. Let’s hope it stays there and doesn’t make it down into the lungs.
Growing up in Leningrad, I was a sickly child. At the age of six, pneumonia knocked me out. I spent many weeks in bed. This dry heat feeling was familiar. That’s how it started back then too.
As I measured my temperature in the middle of the night (100.4), an unpleasant thought popped up. This could kill me. In a week, I may be dead. But I did not linger on this idea, and decided to focus on the practical implications. Remember to tell Ilan where my life insurance file is, in case he ends up left all alone in the house.
Saturday, March 28.
Did my webcast presentation. Temperature during the day still high but manageable: 100.1, then 99.5 later. But Alicia is at 102. Well, at least Ilan is OK. We had started playing an epic game of Axis and Allies.
Except in the evening he complained of throat pain, and I started to hear a light cough from his room. Out came the thermometer. 100.6. Fuck, now we all have it.
End Part I.
Wow. Very well written. So Russian, even. Thank you for taking the time to do this and for sharing it. I thoroughly enjoyed it.