How We Live Now Page 4

  Short-Order Cook at a Restaurant That’s Still Delivering

  April 19, 2020

  27

  Grabbing a drink at a bar is another thing we are learning all too quickly we had taken for granted all too often for far too long. My go-to place was a place just down the block, the Tavern on Jane. It’s got everything you’d want in a neighborhood bar: amiable bartenders, big-screen TVs for watching games, good food, and every conceivable character.

  The tavern is still open for takeout, but the last drinks were served with the city’s total shutdown. I miss it—the camaraderie of fellow beer-drinkers, bullshitters, tall tale–tellers, including me. I have collected so many stories about nights at “The Jane”—some of which I would not repeat—but one in particular has been making me smile recently:

  I’m having a beer at the bar a few years back when a guy about my age two stools down looks up from the cellphone into which he’s been gazing and says to no one in particular, “This ever happen to you?”

  No one else in the vicinity seems to have noticed or heard him, so I reply, “What’s that?”

  “This is so messed up.” He wipes a hand over his face, shakes his head, collects his thoughts, and continues: “So, a few days ago, I’m looking in my closet for something and I find this leather jacket—”

  “Yeah …?”

  “It’s not mine. It’s not my jacket. It’s not even a man’s jacket. It’s a woman’s leather jacket, and I have no idea how it got there—”

  I am already hooked.

  “—Or how long it’s been there. So I start to go through in my head whose it might be—you know, what women have I been seeing—she might have left it at my place by accident?”

  “Right, right, I get it,” I say.

  “And I even ask this friend of mine who helps me shop—I’m really color-blind, and she buys shit for me, shirts and pants and stuff that match in a way I could never see, and so I ask her, ‘Did you see that leather jacket in my closet?’ And she says, ‘Yeah, it’s been there for at least two months.’ ”

  “Two months?” I interject.

  “Yeah, I know—two months! But at least that helps me narrow it down. So I figure it’s gotta be one of either two women. That’s my theory. I text one and ask her if she maybe left her leather jacket. Haven’t heard back from her—not surprised, really; that one didn’t end well. And then the other woman, I just texted her, and she texted right back, but kind of snotty—like, ‘Oh, you can’t even keep track of all the women in your bed?’ ”

  The guy pauses, thinking this through, and adds, “I mean, she added a smiley face, so I don’t think she was too pissed off. But anyway—”

  “—It wasn’t her jacket either,” I fill in.

  “Exactly, it wasn’t her jacket. And I don’t know who the fuck’s it is.”

  “Okay, hold on, let’s pause for a second,” I say, “first, let me compliment you on at least trying to return the jacket. Most guys would just toss it or whatever. I left a blue sweater at a guy’s apartment a couple weeks ago, and I still haven’t gotten it back …”

  The bartender, Lily, has only been half-listening but has gotten the entire gist of the story. “So, Tom—” evidently, his name is Tom “—you should make it a Cinderella story—now you set out to find a girl who fits into the leather jacket.”

  “And then what? I’m no Prince Charming,” he says with a snort.

  Lily smiles. “Never know,” she says.

  “I was thinking of selling it, actually,” he tells me sotto voce. “Hey, Lily! Lily! Here, take a look—” he finds a picture of the jacket on his phone, zooms in on it, shows it to her, “twenty-five dollars, I’ll give it to you for twenty-five dollars.”

  She laughs and walks away to make someone a drink.

  “Let me see,” I say, and the guy—Tom—hands me his phone. The picture shows a mid-length black leather jacket with lots of zippers, hanging forlornly from a hanger, half on, half off, in an otherwise pretty bare closet.

  I hand the phone back to him with a chuckle.

  “It took you two months before you realized it was there? I’m sorry, but that part is hilarious.”

  He shrugs like, What can I say?

  “Women,” he mutters.

  “Men,” I mutter in return.

  There’s a long pause, and then I tell him I want to buy him a drink.

  Tom looks back at me like he doesn’t understand what I have just said. I’ve found there are few things more unnerving to certain straight men—not all, but some—than a gay guy buying them a drink.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” I say, putting it more directly. “May I?”

  “A drink? Um, sure, why not,” though he doesn’t look at all sure this is a good idea.

  Lily pours him a glass of wine, and refills mine.

  “Cheers,” I say, “thank you for that story.”

  Tom and I clink glasses.

  “You’re welcome,” he says.

  NY, NY, NY—Times Square

  September 1, 2017

  28

  Liquor stores—unquestionably “essential”—are still open around here. Here’s how it currently works at the place in my neighborhood: Only five customers in the store at a time; social distancing required; and so forth. They deliver, too, but I wanted to go in and see how the men of Manley’s Wine & Spirits were doing the other day. It was empty.

  Begloved, I placed my bottle of wine on the counter and Omar, who knows me all too well, scanned it with a handheld scanner. I swiped my card in the machine. When it came to signing my name with the little wand, Omar said, “I think I know you well enough to sign for you—is that okay?”

  “I’m sure you do, go for it.”

  With a few quick strokes, he did, then showed me his forgery: in place of my name, he’d drawn two little dots for eyes and a squiggly smile line underneath, like a child’s drawing of a face.

  “That’s how you sign it, right?” Omar said.

  “That is exactly how. Thank you, my friend, and take care.”

  29

  One might think that being sequestered for weeks, being unable to go to a gym or swim, and being just plain bored would translate into even more motivation to exercise at home.

  I am finding this is not the case.

  I look at the simple chart I made to keep track of my home exercise routine—columns for stretching, yoga, sit-ups, cardio, etc.—certain that I would be doing 150 push-ups a day within a week.

  All the chart’s columns are empty over the past nine days.

  Conversely, however, I am spending far more time than usual in the kitchen, cooking. Since Oliver died, I’d lived as he had lived before meeting me: never cooking at home, getting takeout or buying premade things, like a roast chicken and sides, at the deli or—my version of his eating sardines over the sink—eating cereal for dinner. I’d found cooking for one—me—depressing.

  But now, with so much time on my hands, I am shopping more attentively (making grocery lists—imagine that), tracking down recipes, and making dinners for myself while listening to music on WQXR, our classical music station. It feels good—good to be away from screens (computer and phone and TV), good to be creating something (even when things don’t work out well), good to be reviving my once-respectable cooking skills, good for my well-being. I set a place at the table—placemat, napkin, silverware—turn up the music, and have a meal with myself. Tonight: salty roasted cashews and almonds to nibble on; simply sautéed salmon, green beans, and brown rice with scallions. And a bowl of strawberry ice cream.

  Manhattan Beauty

  April 14, 2020

  30

  A letter arrives via email:

  Dear Mr. Hayes,

  A few years ago, I was at the bar at the Corner Bistro on Jane Street, presumably near your house. My friend told me that he was reading The Mind’s Eye by Oliver Sacks, and I started talking about how Dr. Sacks had to be the strangest, most interesting man, as he is self-diagnosed wi
th so many neurological conditions (face-blindness, etc.) and has so many eclectic interests. Literally a few minutes later, Dr. Sacks, wearing plaid on plaid, came in, pulled up a stool, and sat between us smiling. I was in shock and speechless, but he looked at me as if he knew me. After a few seconds, you came by and said something to him (maybe to tell him that he didn’t know us or we weren’t you?) and led him to a table in the back. It’s been among my greatest regrets that I was too flummoxed to say hello.

  So, if I may, belatedly: “Hello, Dr. Sacks.”

  P.S., I am now a neuroscientist at Yale.

  Best wishes, _______

  31

  A text from Jesse:

  “Hey”

  “Hey”

  “I feel like I’m losing you.”

  “No. Not lost. I’m here,” I say.

  We decide to meet at the Christopher Street Pier. We’re not breaking any rules—people are allowed to take walks, to exercise, to meet in public, as long as social distancing is practiced.

  I wait and wait. Finally, I see him shuffling down the block in his hoodie and an overcoat—it’s really chilly and windy out. He looks adorable.

  Reflexively, he leans down to hug me—he towers a good six inches above me—and I want to, too—I want to warm him up—but I gently push him away—“No, no, no, no hugging, remember, no kissing, not yet.” Which makes me feel at once guilty, sad, cruel, sensible, stupid, old—thirty-three years older than he is.

  He steps back with a smile, and we walk to the end of the pier and have a pretty good chat. But it’s awkward, unnatural: to want something—someone—so near to you, you could have it if you really wanted it, but you can’t, you won’t, you don’t. And you don’t know if you will ever have a chance again.

  32

  On my way back home, I spotted three young men exercising vigorously—I mean, really vigorously—on the otherwise deserted pier. I noticed Army insignias on their shorts and shirts and couldn’t resist calling out, “You guys are in the military?”

  They came a little closer to me as I stood on one of the cement risers, at least twenty feet between us.

  “Yeah, we are,” one said.

  “Huh, my dad was too—a Korean War vet,” I said. “He went to West Point, class of 1949.”

  Their eyes widened a bit at that ancient date.

  “We’re at West Point,” one replied.

  “No way! You guys are all at West Point? What are you, uh, what are you guys doing here in the city?”

  “We’re medics,” said one more soberly, “and he’s an RN,” gesturing to the fellow to his left. “We came down for training for, well, for—”

  “—for the crisis?” I said, completing his thought.

  I couldn’t get the word “pandemic” out of my mouth.

  He nodded. “Yeah. We’re headed back up to West Point this afternoon to work in the clinic there for any soldiers who—you know—”

  By now, I was blinking back tears: “For soldiers or cadets who get sick …?”

  All three nodded.

  I thought about my late father and how proud he’d be of them.

  “Thank you, thank you for what you’re doing.”

  We all introduced ourselves before I asked, “May I take your picture?”

  “Sure,” the three soldiers said.

  I took a few of the group, then a couple of each solo.

  One of them—Shane was his name—asked if I would send him the pictures.

  “Sure, of course, how about I give you my number, then text me and I’ll send them on to you. Okay?”

  I called out my phone number across the green field.

  I asked Shane to read it back to me—just to be sure he got it right.

  I haven’t heard from him since. I wonder what’s happened with him.

  West Point Medics Exercising at the Pier

  March 30, 2020

  33

  Headline in the New York Times, March 31: IT’S TIME TO MAKE YOUR OWN FACE MASK

  The situation has changed yet again.

  Days earlier, we were told that masks are necessary only for frontline workers, and they should not be used—and certainly not hoarded—by those who don’t need them.

  But okay, I get it, I understand how contagious this virus is. I read about the latest science emerging from virologists, epidemiologists, public health officials, and there seems to be a consensus that masks may help. At this point, they are recommended but not required. Only problem is, you can’t buy a protective face mask anywhere, or order one online to get here any time soon. I see handmade signs taped to phone poles advertising N95 masks for sale, $10 apiece, with a phone number on tear-off strips at the bottom—all but two are taken. It could very well be a scam.

  I search my apartment, but I do not have a bandana or a scarf like those shown in DIY videos. I try making a mask out of a vacuum cleaner bag, cutting it apart and using shoelaces for ties—someone suggested this somewhere on social media—but when I look in the mirror, I scare myself. I look like a cartoon of a cartoon of a terrorist. I also can’t breathe. I end up making a makeshift mask out of a pair of Calvin Klein briefs; it’ll do.

  34

  I walk east on Fourteenth Street and toward Union Square. Aside from a few scattered people scurrying by with multiple bags of groceries, the only people I see for long stretches are homeless people.

  The still-wintry wind has a mean bite to it.

  I can’t wait for summer.

  I see Raheem’s shopping carts before I spot him—five of them, lined up near the curb, each overflowing with the recyclable bottles and cans he collects for money to live on. Raheem, whom I’ve known for more than five years, is wearing a winter coat and hat and is huddled under blankets in a doorway on the sidewalk. Raheem’s name means “merciful” in Arabic, he told me when we first met. I’ll never forget that.

  We talk for a while. Raheem knows how to protect himself in this pandemic. He has gloves and wipes and hand sanitizer tucked under the blankets, as he shows me. Raheem would never sleep in a homeless shelter even during the best of times—he stopped trying those years ago—and he’s heard they’re “death traps” these days.

  I ask how he’s getting along.

  “Getting along,” he echoes softly in reply, “getting along.”

  I give him a twenty, as I always do, before going on my way.

  “Peace and hallelujah,” Raheem says.

  “Peace and hallelujah,” I say in return.

  Raheem on Fourteenth Street

  March 31, 2020

  35

  I don’t have a car or drive in New York, so this thought hadn’t occurred to me: Yesterday, I spoke to a friend in Washington state who’s hunkered down in her small house together with her family of three plus the boyfriend of her grown daughter, and she is trying to work remotely. When cabin fever hits, she gets in her car and drives. And drives. And drives. On the nearly empty roadways and freeways in Seattle. Music blasting: Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey, Michael Jackson.

  When she told me this, my first thought was: What a great idea for a film: a working mom who can’t take it anymore, grabs a bottle of hand sanitizer and a couple rolls of toilet paper, gets in her car and flees—drives cross-country, coast to coast and back again by different routes, sleeping in her car and squatting in abandoned buildings, until the whole damn pandemic is over.

  36

  The president may say and make up what he wants to hear about how well he’s handling things, but one thing cannot be denied: Deaths are hard to hide. By April 1, far more Americans have already been killed by the coronavirus (more than five thousand) than by the September 11 attacks. In New York City alone, more than one thousand people have perished in the past thirty days. That figure reminds me of Larry Kramer’s prophetic early AIDS essay “1,112 and Counting,” published in the New York Native in March 1983—yet that number referred to cases, not deaths. Now, thirty-seven years later, thirty-two million people around the world h
ave died of AIDS, according to the World Health Organization. What will the toll be ultimately from Covid-19?

  37

  I took a bunch of photos today, but more of things—signs, flowers, scaffolding—than of people. People are becoming scarcer on the streets—and they look scared and unapproachable. But then on West Fourth Street, I came upon three young men (late twenties, I’d guess) sitting on a stoop having drinks and takeout, chatting, around six P.M.

  It was such an unlikely sight—people sitting on their stoop! Like something from a different time—summertime, perhaps—or a daydream.

  From a proper distance, I stopped and said hello, showed them my camera, and asked if I could take a picture. They all said, “Sure.” I told them what I was up to, trying to take street photos during the pandemic, and almost in unison they said, “We all had it, we all had Covid.”

  “What? You guys had it?” I probably unconsciously took a step back or two—or more.

  One of the three explained that they are residents in anesthesiology at NYU Medical Center, where Covid swept through in February—before it became clear this was a global pandemic. They thought it was just a flu bug at first.

  “At least half the people in our entire program got it, maybe more.” Everyone had recovered, including the three of them, without any special treatment, just rest. “It sucked,” one said, and they all agreed that it “sucked for sure,” saying it was like having a bad flu—two days of high fever and chills, and then four or five days before they felt better. They laughed as one chimed in, saying, “I’ve been way, way sicker and still had to show up for classes or at the hospital.” And indeed, the three young men, sitting on a stoop eating delivered Mexican food, looked the picture of health.

  One of the three told me that they’d already been tested for antibodies to the coronavirus and they all were found to have antibodies to it (as had their colleagues), which may mean they are now immune. They have since given their plasma for further study, and they have been back at work for weeks. We chatted for a while longer. I thanked them for what they are doing and for letting me take their picture, and I headed home.