I wake on Saturday leaden. We keep breakfast simple, but preparing it exhausts me. I’m achy, tingly, my lungs feel tight. “Welcome to my week,” says The Girlfriend, who’s feeling more energetic. I go back to bed, able to do little more than read. No fever, though, and no coughing. I text The Co-Parent, say it makes little sense for me to see The Kid today. The Girlfriend makes sandwiches for lunch; I haul myself out of bed, eat, haul myself back.
AT 1:30 p.m. she’s tired again; she prepares to take a work call in bed beside me. “I’m going to try to write,” I say. Somehow, typing out the blog energizes me, and afterward I’m ready for a walk. She’s ready for a nap. It’s like we’re passing a sickness baton.
I take a week’s worth of clothes to the laundromat across the street. They’re open but not taking new loads; as of tomorrow, they’re closed for two weeks. This is a blow. At $1.10 a pound, having my clothes washed, dried, and folded is the best 20-odd dollars I spend every week. My co-op complex has washers and dryers, but I’ve never used them; laundry is my least favorite chore.
I haul my dirty clothes back to the 12th floor, head back out. Coming into the building is a woman about my age and her 20-something son, who has a significant cognitive disability. They live on the first floor, his care her full-time job.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” I say. “Where are you coming from?”
“A loooong walk,” she says. It’s chilly; she looks exhausted.
“I guess you have to go somewhere now the library’s closed,” I say. Every time I visit our local library branch I see them, usually using the computers and wi-fi. I imagine they have no devices at home.
He perks up, looks into my eyes. He doesn’t always do this.
“We still walk by the library every day so I can show him the sign that says it’s closed,” she says, giving me a look over her glasses.
“Library open,” he says. I can’t always understand his diction, but this is clear.
“I hope so soon,” I say. “But it’s hard to say. It could be closed a long time.” I hold my hands a distance apart.
“They closed the tennis courts, too,” she says. “At Fort Greene Park. We like to sit on our bench, keeping our distance from everybody, and watch. But they padlocked the gate.”
“That’s a drag,” I say. “You can stay six feet apart and play tennis.”
“I know,” she says. “But what are we going to do?”
I wish I had an answer.
Walking east on Greene Street I pass a fancy bakery with a new sign: “Only 3 customers at a time. No cash.” This last element strikes me as poor policy. Money is dirty, certainly, but it’ll pass nothing that gloves or a good hand-washing can’t kill. Then again, folks without a bank or credit card may be unwilling to fork over $5 for a cinnamon roll or $11 for a breakfast burrito.
Pedestrian traffic is thin. Car traffic moves in swift currents on a couple of major thoroughfares (Lafayette, Nostrand), with little spillover on the side streets. A pair of happy teens take turns posing for pictures in the middle of otherwise empty Greene Street. Theirs is the only joy on display. Most people are masked. I’m far enough from the Brooklyn Hospital Center to hear ambulance sirens only faintly. I walk west on Myrtle Street, with only supermarkets, pharmacies, and liquor stores doing business.
Daily Covid-19 stats: 52,318 cases in New York state, up 17 percent from Friday. The 7,377 new cases are more than any day this month, but they also represent March’s lowest percentage increase — a sign that physical distancing may be starting to take effect?
The Guardian takes a step back to look at the U.S. response, contrasting it to South Korea, which saw its first Covid-19 patient on the same day (Jan. 20). South Korea rallied private industry to get thousands of rapid diagnostic tests. They quickly identified and quarantined patients. The U.S. dithered, downplayed the problem, tried to “keep the numbers down” to pacify the stock market. Now the wave is beginning to break. The president still plays to his base and downplays the problem, as U.S. deaths top 2,000. New York City (675 dead so far) will be only the first city to suffer to this degree.
Two sample quotes: Ron Klain, the U.S. czar against ebola in 2014: “The U.S. response will be studied for generations as a textbook example of a disastrous, failed effort. What’s happened in Washington has been a fiasco of incredible proportions.”
Jeremy Konyndyk, who led USAid from 2013-17: “We are witnessing in the United States one of the greatest failures of basic governance and basic leadership in modern times.”
President Trump has never been more popular.
I continue to feel energized, The Girlfriend enervated. Before sleep, we skirmish over a series of questions: Should I meet my sister and her boyfriend (now spending time together after each was isolated for two weeks) in the park tomorrow for a six-feet-apart walk? Should we be wearing masks? Should The Kid come over to our house after two-plus weeks at The Co-Parent’s?
In each case, we realize that we have no real information. With the federal government an active disinformation agent, the authority vacuum is taking its toll. We’ve been sort of sick, as has The Kid. Has it been Covid-19? Are we still contagious to The Kid? To outsiders? Should we be isolating? Should I go shopping tomorrow? Do we believe the WHO and CDC on masks (no need for most people), or should we believe the research scientist who says they’re making a scientifically unsound mistake? Smart decisions feel impossible; we’re pounding pitons into sand.
Our doubt as much as our physical symptoms sends us to bed shortly after 9 p.m., depleted.
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