Locked In Like Lolita
This is just a distraction from Hong Kong protests.
Naw, this is a way for China to exterminate those not down with the regime.
It’s a clear violation of human rights.
Can’t wait to drink some Coronas while we’re quarantined.
I don’t care what it is, I just want it to infect the world so we all die.
Kobe died just in time. Wow bro, chill
By this point, the group chat had forwarded seven compilations of Chinese CCTV and smartphone footage. Broadcasts from balconies. Bodies collapsing into stiff seizures. Supermarkets excavated by mobs that swayed like anemones in a rip tide. Police pinning down the souls that leaked from the quarantine as they shouted “we can’t keep living like this. ”You can’t pause a person’s life and choose what resumes.
This was back when you could still whiff remnants of Andy Reid’s neck sweat at Hard Rock Stadium. The gluttony of being a Chiefs fan was now ebbing back to a gray routine that retrospectively brims with life. The Ferris wheel at the Youth Fair slowly rose. Heat fans expected a deep playoff push. Wynwood was Wynwood: all people no parking. The beach was warming itself up for spring. I drenched my taste buds with beer on tap. Played ball at Joe Hall. Noodled with music store guitars I couldn’t afford. Downed rib rolls at Flanigan’s because Floridians are moths to Joe’s green lights.
Then Germany coughed.
Spain wheezed.
Italy collapsed to the floor.
We watched from afar, licking the rib roll sauce from our fingers.
In a few days, the U.S. began surging on its world tour chart. You couldn’t go anywhere without hearing its name. Without arguments over whether it was man-made or the planet was just getting sick of us. Without catching the ignorance of someone blaming it on “los Chinos ascerosos.” Listen, I’ve seen the videos of their liberal protein choices, but now’s not the time to get caught up in the origin of this pandemic. This is the God damn coronavirus. COVID-19 for short. Scientifically known as the SARS-CoV2 virus, but we can’t bring down sales of shitty beer with that name, can we?
Tom Hanks tested positive.
The NBA was suspended indefinitely.
Schools shut down.
Like dominos, one social institution tumbled into the next. And just like that – I could make it to work in 15 minutes. In a city where true happiness is having your commute fall within the gaps of traffic, coronavirus was the Moses who split apart the Camrys. For three weeks, Bird Road felt like an express lane. Despite clear roads and an extra quarter-hour of sleep, none of us could mute the nagging question reverberating through every skull in the world:
Why the fuck is everyone buying toilet paper?
More dominos slammed into the ground. Flanigan’s reduced operations to delivery and takeout. Shopping plazas were shuttered. Leaves and Gatorade bottles scraped across empty basketball courts. The Ferris wheel was gone. For the first time in decades, FIU didn’t reek of elephant ears and corn dogs during the month of March. Public parks were sectioned off with warning signs, patrolled by county employees. White-collar jobs were WiFi compatible. Cubicles looked like abandoned honeycombs. Dining tables became office desks. In one week, the most famous phrases in the world became “Can anyone hear me?” and “You’re on mute.” The only spaces in our lives reserved for decompressing became backdrops for 8-hour Zoom meetings. Everyone’s commute boiled down to making sure they had a shirt on. My career is now taking place three feet away from where I masturbate.
Work infiltrated my house. Every day feels the same.
8:50 AM – Wake up
9:00 AM – Work
2:00 PM – Ride bike around my neighborhood
3:00 PM – Work
5:00 PM – Swivel chair and turn on Xbox
1:30 AM – Bed time
If I’m pent up, I ride bike again. There are considerably more people outside. Speed walking spouses. Kids coloring in slabs of cement with chalk. A pod of bikers zipping down the street. This is what Disney Channel neighborhoods must feel like. An outdoor renaissance brought to you by global pandemic. At night, the sound of cars swooshing down the turnpike used to fizzle into my neighborhood like waves of a distant shore. Now, it’s no louder than a frozen lake. I can hear street lights scream.
One night, right after I turned off the TV to go to sleep, I felt a strange gurgle in my chest.
My lungs weren’t inflating right. My sinuses felt clogged, treating oxygen like bouncers at Eleven would treat me. It wasn’t life-threatening, but enough to de-automate breathing. I flipped pillows and rolled in bed like a gas station hot dog until I drifted off at around 4:30. Three hours later, I woke up with the same shortness of breath. No better, no worse. No coughing. No fever. No dizziness. I told work I felt sick and they were sad to hear I wouldn’t be joining the digital happy hour. Because the first thing I’d like to do after spending eight hours in front of my laptop is drink in front of my laptop. My temperature that day never reached 98. I ate a full meal. I held my breath for a minute. It felt like everyone held their breath. Serà la ansiedàd. It’s allergies, this season is supposed to be the worst in history. You’re freaking out.
I was able to get a COVID19/flu test. I stood outside a medical office wearing gloves, a mask, and a crinkly apron; waiting to know if I’d be a stat in a history book or the reader reminiscing on it. A doctor came out in full PPE gear and explained the simple procedure. Te va a doler pero será rapido. He positioned a culture swab at my left nostril and jammed it so deep, my entire middle school memory was scrubbed from my brain. He dabbed the swab into a small plastic testing device for the flu and the strip blushed pink. Another swab rammed my right nostril until it pushed out tears from the back of my eyes. He slid the sample in a test tube. The grand finale was a giant Q-tip down my throat. Let me tell you, there’s no such thing as a masculine gag. He added the sample to the same test tube then peered at the flu test. Este cuadrado no se volvió morado, estas negatívo para la influenza. Los resultos de la coronavirus llegaràn el Lunes. He balled up his PPE, dumped it in the trash, and walked back inside. The test took less than five minutes.I sat with a wet face and a realization.
I know what it feels like to be a porn star.
Monday morning. My phone rang. You tested negative for COVID19. Although my shortness of breath resided a bit, I was now concerned with my inability to yawn fully. False negative, I thought. My oxygen levels were optimal. I cycled harder with no severe fatigue. Seasonal pollen was another suspect, but I’m only allergic to cats because they’re inferior to dogs. I YouTubed breathing exercises. My obsession with knowing wasn’t rooted inside a fear of infection. I was scared my body could manifest symptoms solely from thought. Specifically, the thought that this ordeal is the new normal. One night I dreamt of just being at a brewery. That’s when I knew I had to leave the house.
I don’t think I’ll ever see the 836 this empty on Easter ever again. At the beach, rose-colored sidewalks that once glistened with oily tourists were now lightly peppered with joggers and cyclists. I let the car idle up Ocean Drive. No bumper to bumper. No booty to booty. Down the road, a cameraman filmed an influencer dancing in front of the South Beach Clock Tower. Essential industries crash and the global economy rots, but God forbid social media drip stops. Biscayne was barren. Driving through Wynwood was like touring an empty studio lot. No one was around to uphold the bohemian structure of pedestrian safety, but muscle memory kept me braking at each intersection. You’d think the murals would look better without people blocking the view, but without the vibrancy of life to reflect off, each installment felt unsaturated of its charisma and perplexed at the lack of attention. Yoda had no audience for his protest. Lolita, in all her winged beauty, asked, is it something wrong with me?
Nope. It’s us. Every day, the president holds a press conference that starts with sleazy optimism and finishes in a crossfire between reporters. Celebrities savored their voices resonating in spacious lofts; lyrics of a lifestyle they’d never give up. Giant companies receive million-dollar injections from the government while mom-and-pop shops struggle with broken websites to keep their business afloat. But hey, those juicy stimmie checks kicked in so I can spend money on bullshit because no matter where I turn, I’m reassured that we’re in this together. We’re in what exactly? We can’t even get the nation to agree on staying indoors during a global pandemic because guess who’s not in this with the rest of us.
Bills.
Bills don’t have to wear masks. Bills don’t need sanitizer. Bills aren’t respecting the six feet separation rule. Maybe we should source the vaccine from bills because they seem to be immune to everything. And because bills aren’t in this together, talented Wal-Mart employees sing spirituals on TV while nurses block protesters begging to work. Imagine risking your life for the opportunity to amplify that risk with a 40-hour work week. Soon enough, we’ll be playing a nationwide game of double-dutch. Each of us take turns jumping in and out of a dangerous vortex of broken capitalism and the most discrete virus of all time. The same teenagers who got high after 6 hours of bagging groceries are now essentials; heroes of the front-line. You’re either whipped to death or robbed of breath. I don’t mean to fear monger, but how can I not when this is an actual headline?
Don’t ingest household cleaning products to thwart corona-virus like Trump suggested -expert
How dystopian is it for health officials to contradict the president by warning the public to not drink bleach? This is what happens when a new virus tags into an existing pandemic of a population that delegitimizes reputable news sources. Things are getting crazy. How do I know? The mayor held a conference from a basketball court to reopen parks under restrictions. Up to three players per half-court, each with their own ball. HORSE can be played, as long as there is no contact. Ballers weep like Don Corleone over what remains of their pastime. Its’s not just parks. Schools and offices expected to follow shortly. All it took was a slight dip in infection rates and the country is ready to slip on an N95 and work through it.
Maybe the cloud-based cocktail of Netflix and Instagram conditioned us to expect instant gratification; to think six weeks of American quarantine is worth three months of Wuhan lockdown. Maybe we’re succumbing to our instinctive need to roam and converse because Disney sing-alongs aren’t cutting it. Maybe we just need the feeling of something new on the horizon, because the novelty of Amazon boxes on our doorsteps is wearing off. I keep dreaming of eating plastic because of an insatiable appetite for its crunchy texture; snapping shards off keyboards and remotes to gorge on. In other dreams, my lungs are failing and every breath I take sounds like a giant bong hit. Then I wake up to more boxes at my doorstep. Maybe we love learning things the hard way. There isn’t much else I can say but ask if there’s a silver lining.
The only one benefiting from the global pandemic is the globe itself. With no reason to manufacturer pointless trinkets and ship them to thousands of dollar stores, the air is clearing up. The Los Angeles skyline is finally visible from a distance. There are more birds shitting on my car. Frigates and cruise liners are all docked and the ocean is quiet again; did you know a cruise ship can be as loud as a rock concert? Now the music comes from whales that can finally hear their own songs. If only Lolita could listen. For the first time in decades, nature is catching her breath. It’s on us to do what’s right so we don’t lose ours.
Written by: Alex Orta for 305 Magazine.com
