Friday. Covid-19 cases in New York State: 44,635, up 20 percent from Thursday. Deaths: 519 total, up 134 (35 percent) from Thursday.
I lack energy to relate the horribleness of President Trump, whose approval ratings have never been higher. Assured by hordes of social media friends how good Gov. Cuomo and Joe Biden look by comparison, I watch clips and am taken by how many of us, our standards immeasurably lowered, are wowed by rank competence.
Biden (maybe sixth in my ranking of Democratic presidential candidates) issues reasonable statements about how we’re all in this together. He’s credible when discussing other people’s pain. I believe that he wants the best for all Americans. His statements about the nation’s can-do spirit strike me as hackneyed but sincere.
Cuomo (whom I’ve twice voted against in state primaries) deftly moves through data-rich power-point presentations. He’s reasonable when discussing New York City as an epicenter: we live on top of each other, which makes us vulnerable to a virus but overall is a strength. He’s careful to distinguish facts from his opinions. When he wishes to beckon our better angels he relies on words from his father, former New York Gov. Mario Cuomo, blessed with political poetry his prosaic son lacks.
Both seem able to anticipate timeframes longer than a news cycle. Both seem willing to trust experts, acknowledge limitations. Both seem able to account for realities unshown by Twitter feeds or TV screens. Both seem able to use personal experience as ground to build empathy, to imagine an existence beyond themselves. In short, neither strikes me as a conspiracy theorist burdened with narcissistic personality disorder.
God bless America.
The Girlfriend remains on the mend but, still sore and fatigued, spends most of the day in bed. The Kid is almost entirely recovered. It’s a fine spring day, the city budding and bursting, and after a lunch of leftovers I ride my bike to see her. I probably shouldn’t. I’m starting to feel more achy and tired. For days I’ve told myself my symptoms are psychosomatic; today’s the first day I think they’re probably not. I ride my co-op elevator (now allowing only one person or family at a time) to the lobby, realize I’ve grabbed The Girlfriend’s sunglasses. I return to the 12th floor, swap glasses, head down to my complex’s bicycle room, realize I gave my key fob yesterday to The Girlfriend. I return to the 12th floor, grab the fob, return to the bike room, tired before I’ve put foot to pedal.
I feel better on a bike. Car traffic remains minimal; sirens remain ubiquitous. Prospect Park is awash in exercisers. The Kid is eager to be outside for 45 minutes before her weekly after-school writing seminar (seamlessly moved online). We walk around Ditmas Park, where lawns and grass-covered islands on the wide streets are filled with parents, babies, dogs, sun-worshippers. We can pretend it’s a normal spring afternoon until we reach Cortelyou Avenue and the local food co-op, where customers line the sidewalk around the corner, down the block, six feet apart; apparently they’re letting in 10 folks at a time. Most businesses are shuttered, save pharmacies and restaurants serving take out. The Kid’s in good enough spirits to carp, notably about the fact that she can’t come to my place for a few more days.
“When do I get to move? Everyone is driving me crazy.”
“Well, you’ve been there for two weeks. If you were with me for two weeks, don’t you think I’d be driving you crazy?”
“Not as much.”
“I can guarantee you: that is untrue. I’m grateful we haven’t had to put it to the test.”
“Maybe we should. Maybe I should stay with you for two weeks.”
“Maybe. We’ll see.”
I’m about to ask her to list gripes about her housemates, think better of it. Instead, she gripes about a horrible show she’s watched: a 1980s anime version of “Little Women” (the Greta Gerwig version of which she’s seen at least four times). Among the problems: terrible animation; the characters’ impossibly high-pitched voices; and info-dumping.
“What’s info-dumping?”
“That’s when you start a story in a new world and the characters say things to explain the world that they’d never say in real life. Like, a girl might say, ‘Mom, I really want to celebrate my 15th birthday in a manner non-traditional for our Flabghastian society, not with a religious observance but instead by inviting both male and female friends over, which has been taboo in Flabghastia since the wars of the 2120s.’”
“I get it. So for this show, does that mean characters say things like, ‘I wish Pa were not away fighting the War Between The States, which we have been fighting since 1861 over southerners’ desire to maintain the institution of enslavement of African peoples, which they think is essential to their way of life, while those of us in the north wish to save the union, and some of us, called abolitionists, consider the practice of slavery cruel and inhumane’?”
“Pretty much. Plus what they do to poor Beth. I mean, in the book and the movie Beth of course is almost sickeningly good. But she’s a real person, with real emotions: sadness, fear, joy. In this version, they turn her into a robot who only seeks good. She’s almost like Janet.”
“Janet?”
“From ‘The Good Place.’ You know, the robot woman with all the information in the universe?”
“Oh, right.”
“But this is a Janet who only wants good for others, with no other reactions.”
“You mean she says things like, ‘Yes, it is sad that our mother is dead. But I can mourn for no longer than 35 seconds, for I must continue to sew buttons onto the uniforms we are sending to the brave soldiers fighting to save our Union.’”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
She starts to explain the horribleness of an animated movie called “Food Fight,” but we’ve reached home and her writing class is starting.
I ride back through a park filled with more bicyclists than I’ve ever seen there, many unfamiliar with its rules of the road (pedestrians to the left, slow bikes in the middle, pass on the right). The ride requires extreme diligence; I arrive home wiped out, sleep for 90 minutes.
I have a hard time getting out of bed. Fortunately, dinner is quick to fix: asparagus pasta. For the first time in days The Girlfriend is perkier than I.
At 7 p.m., she reminds me: New Yorkers are going to their windows and stoops and roof decks to cheer for the nurses and doctors and hospital workers and first responders risking their lives for us all. We spend two minutes at separate windows, hooting, clapping, reveling in the gratitude, the noise, the resilience, the solidarity. I tear up. Until this moment, I didn’t know I felt so raw.
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