• Hi. My name is John. This collection is possible because of the support of Medium subscribers. Thanks to them, I’m able to write weekly essays about pop culture, politics, and feelings. If you’d like to learn more, click here.

Prologue: December 19th, 2021

When I first heard this joke, it was about a Jewish man and kugel. But then I recently read this version on a messageboard:

A man in Mexico was on his deathbed when he suddenly smelled tamales. His favorite food. He flung himself out of bed and dragged himself to the kitchen where he saw his wife busy cooking. With his last bit of strength, he reached for a tamale and his hand was immediately smacked with a wooden spoon.

“Those are for the funeral.”

I laughed. It spoke to me.

A few days ago I dragged myself to a clinic to get a COVID-19 test. The line stretched around the block and it took almost three hours. Afterward, I emotionally ate two slices of pizza, one right after the other. On the street. Both pepperoni. There will be free pizza at my funeral. And tamales. Kugel, too. This essay is legally binding.

It’s been almost two years since the highly-contagious coronavirus was first discovered and then started spreading around the world. Since then, 800,000 Americans have died during the ensuing pandemic. Over five million people around the world have perished.

I have received three shots of a vaccine, the most recent being a “booster” to protect against variants of the virus. The newest mutation — named Omicron, which sounds like a Transformer— is currently surging through New York City. I know, right now, at least a half-dozen people, all vaxxed, who have come down with this new illness. The symptoms are milder, or so I hear.

Of course, the word “mild” has two meanings now. The first definition is, you know, “not severe” but it can also mean “not in a medically-induced coma.”

A couple of weeks ago my life was almost normal. Kinda sorta. I wore masks on the subway, yes. I should have been doing that for years. I shudder to think of what I caught down there. My vaccination card was checked before entering movies, where I also wore my mask, mostly out of duty. I saw friends, but we met and ate outdoors when we could. So this variant is an unwelcome surprise. As I stood in line, waiting, I received a text from a friend whose husband and daughter are sick, wheezing, and coughing together, canceling their holiday plans because no one wants to infect grandma.

Just to be clear, I’m not symptomatic. I was getting tested at the request of my ex-fiancee, whose sister is immunocompromised. She is taking care of my one-eyed dog for the holiday while I visit my family in Texas. If I visit my family. Should I visit my family? Goddammit.

She is going to pick up the pooch and we’re going to say “hi,” from a distance. My ex and I haven’t seen each other in a while. I think she’s doing as well as can be expected.

We survived the pandemic but our relationship did not. We spent most of last year living in a small house north of the city with her mother and sister. I made them countless stuffed peppers. I watched countless hours of Jeopardy! with them. We were terrified together, we laughed together, the four of us. But it was too much. The snow, the plague, the loss. We tried. She tried. I tried.

The world doesn’t end with a whimper, it ends with a long, defeated sigh.

I am still close with her family but I have a new life now. It’s smaller, a little more fragile than I’d like. But it’s mine and I still make stuffed peppers, only not as many.

At the clinic, the nurse was visibly tired behind her mask. My eyes watered, as they always do when the swab enters my nostril. We didn't make small talk. I was just one more anxious person getting tested, one of who knows how many she’d seen that day. Hundreds?

I waited for my results and they are negative, and yet, during that time, thousands more New Yorkers tested positive. This is what living with a virus looks like. A few months of not thinking about sore throats or hospitals and then, suddenly, we’re back.

There was a young man behind me in the line outside the clinic who agreed with me when I cursed the wait.

“I hate this.”

“Yup.”

He was probably ten, fifteen years younger. This is the worst he’s seen he tells me. He gets a weekly test because he’s unvaccinated and then there’s a pause in our banter because the people who loudly refuse to get vaccinated are sometimes the same who called the virus “fake news” in 2020. He told me he’s unvaccinated almost sheepishly and I felt the anger in me rise and then I relaxed my fists. I didn’t have the energy to hate him so I just asked him why he’s unvaccinated.

He stammered: he was sick as a kid, had multiple surgeries, something about his lymph nodes. He’s scared of the vaccine so he gets the test because that’s his workplace’s other option and so I drop it. It had been a long day. We’re on our feet. He’s getting texts and I’m getting texts. So-and-so went to a party, so-and-so went to a show. People are testing positive. This feels like the beginning, all over again.

I have another test scheduled for later this week, and then I’ll make the decision about whether I should visit my mom, who is 78 and vulnerable. I already know what I have to do but I’m going to spend another couple of days pretending I’m going to see her.

And so here I am, sitting in my apartment. Again. I’m listening to Taylor Swift’s melancholy power-pop album ‘Folklore,’ which was my soundtrack during the worst of the pandemic. I was never a fan of hers but I am now a convert. I am listening to her sad songs again to remind me of that time I was brave. This time around, though, I’m stocking up more frozen pizzas and buying fewer cans of beef stew.

This time. This time I won’t wipe down my groceries with disinfectant wipes. This time is not the last time.

The twelve essays in this short collection were written during late winter and early spring of 2020. The title of each scene is the date it was published. I wrote dozens of essays during the pandemic for my blog Humungus, which was both a job and a coping mechanism. I did my best to stick to writing about pop culture and politics but the growing COVID-19 crisis crept into my work. I chose a nine-week period which reveals, slowly, the intensity of that particular part of the timeline. I edited these selections for typos and tightened a few paragraphs here and there but otherwise, I left them as they were written, in a hurry, scared, scattershot, and clear-eyed.

Just a few scenes. Essays about quarantine, and movies, and muddling through. They’re reminders of what was so that what is right now doesn’t seem so overwhelming. We will get through this. In the meantime, wear a mask when asked, get vaccinated, please, love your friends and family, and eat your favorite foods, now, while you have the time.

Scene One: February 26, 2020

The Centers for Disease Control said the coronavirus will likely spread to the U.S. and that “this could be bad.”

So naturally, I decided to stream Contagion, Steven Soderbergh’s star-studded 2011 medical thriller about a deadly virus that kills millions. It’s a movie full of celebrities coughing to death as emergency responders in Hazmat suits stare on helplessly. The movie doesn’t even spare Gwyneth Paltrow, who croaks from a mysterious superflu in the first ten minutes.

Spoiler alert.

The make-believe virus of Contagion and the real-life coronavirus even have the same origin: China. Since December, it has spread to other countries like Iran, Italy, and South Korea, infecting 80,000. Of those who have gotten sick, 3000 have died.

The U.S. has confirmed 14 cases from people who have been to China or been in contact with someone who has been to that country. Apparently, it’s going to get worse.

Americans should prepare for “significant disruption” to their lives, said Nancy Messonnier, director of the National Center for Immunization and Respiratory Diseases. “It’s not so much a question of if this will happen anymore but more of exactly when,” she said.

The blunt talk from government officials felt shocking since they’ve previously been more measured in their warnings. And then, of course, there’s what the President of the United States has been saying, which I’ll get to in a moment.

This is all scary news.

I guess when it comes to panic I’m a “go big or go home” sort of guy. I couldn’t get enough of Contagion’s apocalypse porn. I wanted more scenes of scientists looking worried and lingering shots of physical contact between people to show how the virus jumps. The illness itself starts out with a sniffle and then quickly transforms into Stephen King’s The Stand, his classic novel about the survivors of a pestilence that wipes out most life on earth.

And I’m not the only person revisiting this esteemed epidemic epic: Contagion cracked the iTunes Top 10 this month, alongside Oscar-winners like Parasite and Once Upon A Time In Hollywood.

Anyway, my fingers are currently stinging from hand sanitizer as I type this. I don’t know why I decided to take time out of my afternoon to re-watch Contagion. My fears are hungry and they want to be fed.

Let me get this out of the way: Contagion is a fast-paced, fact-based thriller. Soderbergh is utterly ruthless as he tells a story about mortals cursed by a near-Biblical plague. The movie is cold-hearted but human. He really is one of our least sentimental filmmakers and I don’t think he’s appreciated enough for bringing documentary-style intimacy and vulnerability to his dramas and comedies.

It’s a really good movie, okay?

I liked Contagion when it came out. A lot. I remember thinking “wow that’s scary but it will probably never happen.” And now I’m afraid it actually might happen. To be fair, I had that thought during the SARS and swine flu outbreaks. I was also convinced I’d get Ebola, even though that disease was mostly isolated to West Africa. But the CDC wasn’t telling us to get ready for some real shit then.

I know I shouldn’t freak out. Here’s a pretty great article from The Atlantic about the virus, actually. It helped to read. While I’m linking, check out the CDC’s page about the coronavirus. There’s almost too much information out there but most of it doesn’t conceal the truth that the highly-communicable virus has not been contained and that a vaccine has not been developed.

Contagion is a fictional worst-case scenario about the complete breakdown of society and it’s sobering, to say the least. The riot scenes are disturbing, especially when a man tackles a woman to steal an army meal-ready-to-eat she was lucky to be given. It’s also scary like a horror movie. The sudden death of one of the main characters really kicked me in the bells.

But what scared me the most was the movie’s assumption that the U.S. government is competent. The scientists and bureaucrats and military leaders are all smart, principled, and good at their jobs. Some of them make immense sacrifices. Ultimately, they are overwhelmed by a staggering disaster beyond their control. Humans are powerless before such acts of God.

This was upsetting because while our own real-world infectious disease experts were speaking out about the realities of a potential pandemic, the President of the United States was contradicting them while on a trip to India. During a press conference, he assured Americans that the virus is “very well under control.”

When that dude opens his mouth, Slinkies spill out.

Meanwhile, economic advisor Larry Kudlow incorrectly stated the U.S. has contained the coronavirus and that that economy is in “good shape.” There are reports that the President is mostly concerned with the effect the virus will have on the stock market. This is a man who not only cut funding to the CDC but also famously quarreled with his own climatologists on the direction of a hurricane.

“Things are bad but things are great” is a terrifying and incoherent message from those in power. If they can’t coordinate on an honest answer to simple questions about the potential pandemic then how are they going to protect the nation? I suppose there are thousands of government personnel who are professionals but it would help if the guys at the top thought a little before they spoke.

In Contagion 2, the government is incompetent, I guess. It shocks me that the America of 2011 had faith in its institutions. Welcome to 2020: the clowns in charge don’t know what the fuck they’re doing.

Maybe I shouldn’t have watched the movie. I don’t know. Because of it, I did buy three cans of Dinty Moore Beef Stew at the grocery store today so maybe that’s a good thing? I had considered putting on 12 Monkeys, another movie about a lethal airborne virus, but I remember it being a little less realistic. Less prescient. Contagion gets so much right, especially for a movie that’s almost ten years old. It understands that the modern world is defined by its interconnectedness, which brings both prosperity and danger.

Contagion is especially on point when it’s clear that a blogger peddling misinformation played by Jude Law is a bigger asshole than the virus.

Scene Two: March 7th, 2020

My hands are clean. I’m the kind of man who scrubs in like a surgeon before eating chicken wings for dinner. From the moment I step onto the New York City subway, a petri dish on wheels, I think of nothing but the moment I can lather up and rinse off with hot water.

I am constantly washing my hands, like an obsessive Pontius Pilate. It helps to see the world as I see it: splattered with microscopic death.

So it’s a nasty surprise to learn that I’m in the minority. According to a study cited by the Centers For Disease Control, a horrifying 69% (nice) of men reported they don’t wash their hands. Yes, that’s right, the vast majority of dudes don’t wash after using the toilet.

That means almost 7 out of 10 men walk around giving high-fives with hands soaked in invisible human juices. Apparently, I have shaken hands with billions of fecal molecules. And so have you.

I accept that my gender has its unsavory habits. While I often criticize and mock men don’t think for a moment I’m above it all.

I have been known to wear the same pair of socks two days in a row. I eat week-old Thai food takeout. I don’t always clip my toenails. I’m gross. Pull my finger.

But, my dudes, wash your hands. Please. Wash them after manipulating your genital organs. Wash them after using public transportation. Wash them, regularly, because you are a human being interacting with other human beings and human beings, while sometimes very nice, are also autonomous biological weapons. We are covered in germs and thankfully, germs hate soap.

I feel like I’ve been training my whole life for the coronavirus pandemic, the flu-like illness that is spreading around the world at an alarming rate and is especially dangerous to the elderly and those with weak immune systems. Not to mention the uninsured. I really don’t want to contribute to anyone’s anxieties about this unfolding story but I think it’s fair to say the COV-19 outbreak is not as bad as it seems and is also far worse than we’re being told.

In addition to washing my hands, I use to be an avid hand sanitizer user but that was before the precious goo started to sell out. True story: a man tried to sell me a one-ounce bottle of Purell for eight dollars on the streets of Manhattan this week like it was a drug. I should have asked him how much for a squirt.

The majority of infectious disease experts say the best way to protect yourself from the virus is to regularly wash your hands with soap and water for at least 20 seconds. Some of those healthcare experts suggest singing “Happy Birthday” twice while washing hands in order to completely rinse away germs. Instead of singing “Happy Birthday” I sing two choruses of Katy Perry’s “Dark Horse.”

So you wanna play with magic?
Boy, you should know what you’re fallin’ for
Baby, do you dare to do this?
’Cause I’m coming at you like a dark horse
Are you ready for, ready for
A perfect storm, perfect storm?
’Cause once you’re mine, once you’re mine
There’s no going back

I have been religiously washing my hands for my entire life. I wash them like I’m going to win a prize. I’m so good at it I should teach a free workshop. The first lesson? Washing your hands, even if you’re a healthy young man, is a good way to protect friends and family. So be a hero. If you don’t want to wash your hands for yourself do it for the vulnerable people in your life.

Wait, I’ve changed my mind. Do it for your loved ones but also do it for me, because, good God, you just went to the bathroom.

Scene Three: March 11th, 2020

Lie to me about the virus. I know the truth but, you know, the truth is overrated. I want fantasy and “what if”s. Mind you, I’m not looking for an escape. I have Netflix for that. No, tell me a bedtime story. A fable. I know they don’t really live happily ever after, but I want to be told they do. I want best-case scenarios instead of the sinking feeling that this is just the beginning.

I am overloaded with information. I know that the coronavirus, or COVID-19, isn’t the flu. For one thing, it’s more contagious than the flu. For another, the virus can escalate unexpectedly in ways healthcare professionals don’t understand yet. The mortality rate also appears to be higher than influenza, especially if you’re over 60 or have an underlying condition, like heart disease or cancer. But we need more data before that number is certain. We actually don’t know much.

The experts advise washing your hands. We learned that in kindergarten. I’m washing my hands so often the skin on my knuckles is cracking. The masks won’t protect you. They should be worn only if you’re infected. I saw a young man with an expensive mask panic-buy PopTarts yesterday.

Doctors have other suggestions: Don’t touch your face even though you only remember that after you’ve touched your face. Avoid crowded places, like public transportation or Starbucks at peak hours. Practice “social distancing,” which is every teenager’s primary survival tactic. Work from home if you can. Make your own hand sanitizer.

This is all common knowledge by now. If you’re reading this you know to wash your hands. You’ve read the same stories and watched the same broadcasts. You also know something is coming. There’s a weird energy in the air. A charge. Calls home to check in end with intense “I love you”s.

The virus is spreading across the globe, but unlike other countries where testing of patients has been swift and thorough, America can’t get its star-spangled head out of its star-spangled ass.

The economy is cratering. The federal government is impotent. The president of the United States is a fool beyond his ability to cope. Cable news is a ghost ship. The shelves of grocery stores are empty. People are panic buying canned soup and toilet paper like they’ll be post-apocalyptic currencies. In a suburb of New York City, the military is setting up blockades to contain a community outbreak, which feels like a dress rehearsal.

The medical system will likely be overwhelmed soon with the sick and the terrified. There aren’t enough beds, you see. Caregivers are already exhausted. This is all happening very quickly, and all at once.

Pretty soon I’m going to have to play the grim game: “Allergies or COVID-19?”

There will be those who can afford more comfort than others. A lucky few will lock themselves inside modern-day castles protected by mercenaries with families of their own outside the walls. But it won’t matter. Historically speaking plagues have a way of visiting princes and peasants alike. Diseases don’t have passports, either. They don’t need them.

I’m afraid that things are going to get worse before they get better. If they get better. I have never liked people who say “this is the new normal.” They’re usually referring to racism or inequality, which are actually the most normal things ever. In America, at least. But what if this really is the new normal? What if this is it? What if it’s just pandemics and floods and wars from here on out?

I don’t trust the media. I don’t trust the authorities. I don’t know if there are enough heroic doctors and nurses to save us. This country knew this kind of disaster was inevitable but we chose to torment each other in ways big and small instead. Our politics is so base, just hunger and fear, teeth and bone. Oh, what cruel, greedy little fuckers we are.

The virus will be everywhere soon if it’s not already. Everything will close. Schools, churches, fast food restaurants. No parades. No music. No dancing. There will be riots but if there’s one type of crook cops love to execute on the spot its looters, even if they’re just stealing baby formula. Most of us will retreat into our homes, like everyday Pharaohs sealed in tombs filled with canned soups and toilet paper. Social media will be an endless scroll of people begging for help. It will come for some and not others.

I will make jokes in quarantine. I will write funny tweets and make funny videos. I will announce in a silly voice that I’m eating the last box of mac and cheese. In the hospital, my laughter will dissolve into wheezing. There is a high probability I will survive but something is going to kill me eventually: COVID-20, mass starvation, shitty health insurance.

I know things are bad. I know the worst is yet to come. I don’t need to hear the truth because I already know it. What I want is to be lied to. So… lie to me. Please. I want to be told this will all work out. That there will be a cure. A vaccine. That compassion and gentleness and love will prevail. I’d prefer the lies to not be jokes.

And don’t lie to me the way politicians lie: I don’t need to be told who to hate or who hates me. No, I’m tired of those lies. I’m also done with all of the petty lies of capitalism. A brand new car won’t make me happy. I am not my paycheck. There are people who work hard, who work until they can’t work anymore, and still struggle.

No. I want to be told that honesty matters. That there are people who do the right thing because it is the right thing to do. I want to believe that justice will win in the end and I want to believe that even though I know it is not true.

Tell me the world can be healed. That innocent people can be saved. I want to be told the story of an angel blinding a billionaire because he refused to heed his command to feed the hungry and care for the sick. I want the following whispered into my ear: evil is defeated.

What if we can fix what we’ve broken? What if every prayer is answered?

I want gorgeous lies about humans loving humans. I want colossal lies about mankind’s capacity to grow. I want tender lies that promise we will all be forgiven. Tell me the moon smiles upon us all when we sleep. Tell me our children’s tomorrow will be filled with joy and wonder. Tell me those gasping for air will breathe again. I want to have faith in humans, holding hands. If this is just the beginning I want to believe what happens next will be good.

Scene Four: March 15th, 2020

I know I shouldn’t look at my phone in bed. There have been studies about how bad it is for one’s quality of sleep. And yet, I still scroll. I scroll on the couch, I scroll in the bath, I scroll tucked under covers. It’s one of the ways I control anxiety and it is not a healthy way to control anxiety. If you’re feeling scared about the coronavirus — also known as COVID-19 — then I highly suggest limiting the time you spend on social media. For instance, Facebook is a sewer of hysteria and misinformation.

The news is nonstop but the important facts haven’t changed: wash your hands and self-quarantine. It’s crazy-making to stay inside but it will save lives. Read a book instead or stare out a window, longingly.

In fact, I just deleted Twitter off my phone (but I still find myself checking it on my laptop browser.) Right now, the only social app on my phone is TikTok.

I am obsessed with TikTok, the popular short video social media platform. It’s a source of positivity. The app is powered by the creativity of millions of teenagers, twentysomethings, and a few celebrities. I find it endlessly amusing, video after video of dancing, musical theater lip syncs, and grassroots absurdist comedy. I mean there’s more variety than those three basic genres I love.

And then there are the plague doctors.

I do not know why TikTok’s algorithm served me short videos of historical cosplayers dressing up as the creepy medieval physicians who wore masks with long beaks. (There’s even a #plaguedoctor hashtag!) Maybe TikTok’s robot brain thought since I watched videos of people dressed as Marvel characters and various Satanic monsters I would want to watch the most obscure cosplay imaginable.

And you know what? TikTok was right. I have always been fascinated with plague doctors and I am pleased that the younger generation shares my interests. My interests include comic books, show tunes, and hypochondria.

I am also pleased that history still remembers these men who visited those dying of the Bubonic Plague in the 14th Century. The plague, or the Black Death, was a gruesome bacterial infection that swelled the bodies of its victims before the fatal septic shock. Plague doctors could do very little for these poor souls except show up dressed like a nightmare and just bear witness.

The plague was a nightmare that’s still hard to fathom: in Europe alone 25 million people died between 1347 and 1351.

The Dark Ages were not Western civilization’s finest nine hundred years. Yes, there were some technological discoveries after the fall of Rome and some beautiful art and, you know Chaucer. But the ‘dark’ part wasn’t total hyperbole: the continent was, mostly, a superstitious shithole ruled by barbarians.

In addition, the Catholic Church was a secretive priesthood that hoarded knowledge and wealth. If you were a peasant who wanted the world explained to him you had to go to Mass, which was basically the internet. Those who weren’t part of Big Church worked, in one way or another, for lords who considered themselves one rung below the Son of Man. It was also a time when men thought the shadows were full of evil spirits. A long-ago era when nature was all-powerful and mankind puny.

The plague doctor’s iconic costume — consisting of an overcoat, a wide-brimmed hat, and a mask with glass eye holes — was like a primitive Hazmat suit that did absolutely nothing for its wearer except freak out villagers.

They carried a cane used for poking patients in their deathbeds. Their beaks were stuffed with herbs and aromatics like cloves and juniper berries because it was thought, at the time, that bad smells transmitted disease, a maddening theory when you consider everyone lived in a vast open grave. The suffering often thought the plague was a punishment from God and begged the plague doctors to beat them with their walking sticks as a form of penance.

The plague doctors were often actual men of medicine, although I probably have more actual medical knowledge than a Middle Ages MD. For instance: skip the leeches! But many of these so-called doctors recorded data that actually helped the study of a pestilence that would wipe out almost two-thirds of Europe. Some of these plague doctors were opportunists though — struggling merchants and wanderers willing to make a buck risking their lives.

Plague doctors were usually employed by towns or churches and their services were available to the rich and poor. Even the Pope hired them. But these plagues doctors were useless. Their cures did nothing. They frequently caught the disease. Their primary job was walking into places that healthy people avoided. That was it. Yes, a few did it for the money. Others because they swore an oath to heal.

But no one walks into the unknown like that without a little faith and a little courage.

The last time I took the New York City subway was four days ago. I had decided to visit my therapist for our weekly sessions. Normally, I make this trip without thinking. It’s second nature.

I just make sure I’m on the downtown 1 train at 6:30 PM so I can make my shrink’s office by 7. Then I just sort of zone out: I listen to music or a podcast or just think about the day.

But this recent trip felt like a calculated risk. The news had been warning of a growing global pandemic. The government was struggling to respond to an unprecedented public health crisis. The ‘coronavirus,’ or COVID-19, a highly-contagious and aggressive respiratory illness, was slowly spreading throughout America, after sickening, and killing, thousands in Europe and Asia.

The last time I had been nervous on the subway train was one week after the 9/11 terrorist attacks when envelopes of powdered anthrax spores, a deadly disease with an 80% mortality rate, were mailed through the US postal service to various politicians in DC and media companies in New York, killing 5 and infecting 17. I recall a local news anchor breathlessly reporting that anthrax spores can live for decades and wouldn’t it be terrible if the terrorist dusted the subway with them?

Uh, yes, news dude. It would suck, majorly.

At the time, I was still in shock from the destruction and death at the World Trade Center so the idea that a terrorist could sprinkle invisible death all over the public transport system I used every morning and evening was terrifying. That was an awful week. I remember riding the N train to Queens when The New York Post got an envelope full of anthrax and thinking “You’ve got to have courage, John.”

I do not think commuting home made me a hero. But I did decide to take the train. I am not a hero but I can slowly drag my fear behind me like Jacob Marley’s heavy chains. That’s good enough.

Earlier this week, the medical community had offered one solution to dealing with COVID-19 other than routinely washing hands: avoid crowds, stay inside, voluntarily quarantine yourself. Only go out of it’s important. I thought it was important to see my therapist. The coming weeks are going to be tumultuous. The society that we’ve known is going to change. And, I’m afraid, more and more people are going to exhibit coronavirus symptoms and require hospitalization. Some might not come home.

I didn’t know when I would see him in person again and the virus was only getting worse. I wanted one last human moment with him before we move to video chat. It was a risk but I wanted to take it because of my mental health. I have this feeling it’s going to be a long time until I see many friends and my family in the flesh again.

The train wasn’t crowded but I made suspicious eye contact with a man about my age. We looked at each other like the other was a Trojan Horse full of millions of tiny germs.

The coronavirus can survive on physical surfaces for 2–3 days. That means every pole in every subway car was potentially dripping with the disease. I kept my hands in my pockets as much as I could. I did not touch my face. A formally normal ritual was now an anxiety-producing horror movie called Death Train To Infection City.

A few hours earlier I swallowed a sip of coconut-flavored seltzer wrong and after clearing my throat I thought: “I am dead.”

When I told my shrink about my journey he was sympathetic. He has a low tolerance for my bullshit but he understands this is a time of great confusion. Happy events like concerts and sporting events are suddenly dangerous. A comforting hug between two friends could mean contracting a potentially lethal cough. The internet was full of Baby Yoda GIFS one moment and is now full of frightening stories from Italy and China and Washington State.

He and I talked about rational reactions to unprecedented events. I told him my fears about having an elderly mother living far away. I was open about my attempts at being a supportive boyfriend. He told me that empathy is listening to someone and holding their feelings with them, sometimes in silence. It doesn’t mean offering advice or talking tough or filling the silence with smart and reassuring words. Empathy is sharing someone’s time and space and emotions. That’s not easy for me to do.

At the end of the session, he told me to pray. This took me off guard and not because he’s Jewish and I’m a little bit Catholic and a little bit Baptist. It surprised me because I knew I needed to hear that since I’m a recovering alcoholic. There is a step in Alcoholics Anonymous, the eleventh, that says alcoholics should pray or meditate to God in the hope that he’ll let them know what His plan is and how to carry that out. In AA, any talk of God is quickly followed by the disclaimer “as you understand him.” Do you believe in Jesus? Great. Galactus? Fine. It’s your call.

Your higher-power shouldn’t be your own asshole, though, even if you can fit your entire head in it.

The eleventh step is a reminder that you are not the center of the universe. Your woes and joys are not special. I don’t believe in God but I like to think I’m spiritual. Spirituality is just the realization that you are part of an eternal whole. There is something bigger than you in this life. That could be Mother Nature or The Force or an omnipotent old man in a robe who lives in the clouds. That could also be love or the energy that fires up the stars. I have hippie-like tendencies.

My therapist wanted me to pray to my higher power because he wanted me to keep doing the things I do to stay sober. He wanted me to ask God as I know him or her or them for answers that won’t come which is the entire point. No one knows anything. All you, or anyone, knows for sure is that every so often you get to make a choice: pick up another drink or ask for help, wash your hands or wipe them on your pants, get on the train or stay home.

The eleventh step doesn’t specify the best prayer to say. You can also just sit quietly or reflect if you want. The shortest prayer I know is “Thy will be done.” My dad taught it to me and he recited it right up until the coma. I suppose it was selfish of me to beg a God I didn’t believe in to spare him. But at least I was able to find the strength to walk into a hospital room filled with death and bear witness.

Prayer isn’t an Amazon order. It’s an unselfish way of asking for help that will not come not, then standing tall and doing the heartbreaking work of living anyway. You have your work and your higher power has theirs. The universe is chaos, mostly. There’s very little you can do about that. So keep your eyes on what’s in front of you.

Right now, as an infectious disease haunts our hospitals, there are doctors and nurses who are marching into battle with science on their side. They are armed with masks and gloves, training and experience, faith and courage.

These are days of acts of faith and courage, both big and small. And we are all walking into the unknown together.

Scene Five: March 17th, 2020

The villain from Steven Spielberg’s classic blockbuster Jaws isn’t the giant shark. Yes, the sharp-toothed great white is a monster who snacks on a bunch of humans before being blown up by local police chief Martin Brody, played by tender tough guy Roy Scheider. But the shark is just a hungry fish. You can’t hate an animal for being true to its nature.

A shark can’t decide to not be a shark?

No, the villain of Jaws is Mayor Larry Vaughn, a glad-handing weasel in a pastel suit who decides to keep the beaches of little Amity Island open for the sake of business even though innocent people are being eaten. The shark doesn’t know any better but Mayor Vaughn does. He makes a clear moral choice: profits over human lives. Mayor Vaughn is played by veteran character actor Murray Hamilton who seemed to know, instinctively, that dangerous politicians are always a cross between a used car salesman and a game show host.

“As you can see, it’s a beautiful day,” he tells reporters at one point. “The beaches are opened, and people are having a wonderful time.” Meanwhile, a maneater was hunting swimmers.

This character does everything wrong. He refuses to listen to public servants like Brody or experts. At one point, fishermen catch a tiger shark they think is the one gobbling up beachgoers. Mayor Vaughn is so thrilled at the possibility of an easy solution he dismisses a nerdy oceanographer’s warnings that the danger is still out there.

I’m not writing about Mayor Vaughn for the sake of nostalgia. I’m usually more than happy to write about Jaws for any reason — the 1975 thriller still crackles. No. I’m bringing up the movie’s fictional elected official because there are two types of leaders right now: those screaming “shark!” and those saying “the water’s fine!”

There are those who are taking the coronavirus pandemic seriously and there are those who are not, and they know better. Here are a few examples:

Instead of telling vulnerable West Virginians to keep a healthy distance from other people — which is advice healthcare experts give to protect the well and make sure sick people don’t infect others — Governor Jim Justice went on TV and said: “Go to the grocery stores. If you want to go to Bob Evans and eat.”

Bob Evans is a regional family restaurant chain that serves up country-themed foods. I guess Gov. Justice must love their breakfast sausages and/or have a financial stake in the company.

Yesterday, Republican Congressman Devin Nunes, a showboating Californian who loves President Trump almost as much as suing people who make fun of him, also went on TV and contradicted the “social distancing” advice.

“If you’re healthy, you and your family, it’s a great time to go out and go to a local restaurant, likely you can get in easily,” said Nunes, even though cities across the country were shutting down restaurants and bars.

Texas Republican Senator John Cornyn didn’t want to be left out of the fun. Over the weekend he told his followers “don’t panic” on Twitter, and included a photo of a Corona beer.

These powerful men are spending their time shouting “the waters fine” even while surfers are being pulled under and gobbled up.

And in Clearwater, Florida, hundreds are crowding beaches as local leaders debate adding a curfew or closing them. There might be a decision in a few days but in the meantime, crowds of sunbathers are ignoring recommendations that could help fight the spread of the unpredictable, and deadly, respiratory virus sweeping the entire country.

It’s one thing for dishonest cable news hosts to willfully mislead their viewers for ratings or for selfish young things in supposedly smart cities like D.C. and Brooklyn to defiantly crowd bars, but to be a governor or a congressperson or a local mayor and to contradict experts during a public health crisis is shameful.

And then, of course, there’s the President of the United States. He’s what you get when you cross a Cheshire cat with a guy who sells fake Rolex watches on the street. The man has called the coronavirus a hoax, he’s dismissed it as nothing more than “the flu,” and he’s said, and I quote, “stay calm, it will go away.”

What’s worst is he seems obsessed with the stock market and not regular Americans. For weeks, his confused speeches to the public appeared to serve one purpose: soothe anxious investors (he failed; the Dow Jones dropped 3,000 points today, the single biggest loss since the 1987 market crash.)

If Donald Trump were the Mayor of a small coastal New England tourist town he would 100% keep the beaches open even if the tide brought in bloody limbs.

Just a few days ago the President refused to accept responsibility for the multiple missteps his administration has taken during the growing coronavirus crisis. And then he shook hands. OMG, that is such a Mayor Vaughn move.

These are uncertain times and the country — the world, really — needs leaders who are serious-minded and steady. Instead, we have far too many legislators and executives who are all jokes and sweat stains. When you step inside the voting booth make sure to vote up and down the ballot for the candidate who will close the beach if there’s a giant fucking shark hiding under the waves. That’s right: vote for the person who would spend $10,000 to hire an experienced deep-sea hunter and not wait until some poor dude is shark food before reluctantly doing it.

Larry Vaughn is still mayor in Jaws 2. Would you believe in that lackluster sequel he simply can’t believe there’s another shark and again refuses to ruin the town’s economy because of a sea monster? That’s just a movie, thankfully. Here in the real world, we would never re-elect selfish clowns who are only interested in money, would we?

Scene Six: March 22nd, 2020

I have been reading articles about the coronavirus the way the android Data in Star Trek The Next Generation scans information — his cyborg eyes toggling back and forth over a computer screen. In the celebrated sci-fi show, Data is often asked to process reams of facts and figures with his powerful brain. In my real life, I want to scream because my puny brain can’t process this pandemic.

(On a side note: binge-watch Star Trek if you can. Any of them, really. Deep Space Nine, Voyager, Discovery. It’s comforting to watch a TV show whose basic premise is that humanity is smart and kind.)

For the past week, I have acted like a robot. A chubby Data with a beard. That’s how men are supposed to act in these situations, right? Rational Logical. Emotionless. The news is bleak. There are people in danger. I am strong and silent.

And then my eyes froze on a report that 54% of New York City residents who have tested positive for coronavirus are men between the ages of 18 and 49.

I don’t know why so many men under 50 are catching this virus. It could just be an unfortunate quirk of biology or maybe men aren’t taking this pandemic seriously. I suppose, at this moment, it doesn’t matter. The truth is I am not a synthetic lifeform with artificial intelligence. I’m just a 45-year-old man.

Reader, I have a confession to make. I’m scared. It’s easier to write those words than to say them out loud. When family members ask me how I’m doing I say “I’m doing the best I can.” Which is true. I am doing the best I can, all things considered. And those things that should be considered are 1. a highly infectious respiratory illness is sweeping the country 2. The only effective way to fight this virus is for countless millions of people to self-quarantine and 3. The economy is collapsing as a result.

I am doing the best I can considering the world I knew is gone and the world to come is unknown.

But I’m not going to bullshit you. I’m scared of getting sick. I’m terrified of friends and family I love having tubes shoved down their throats. My neighbors are a pair of vulnerable elderly Chinese-Americans who take loving care of a blind 13-year-old Shih-Tzu. We keep our distance but the fear in their eyes breaks my heart.

What if I can’t pay my rent? Or my health insurance? What if I never get to sit outside and drink espresso while eating an almond croissant at that place around the corner that’s currently boarded up? I’m afraid the rest of my life will be nothing but grief. I feel like I’m living in a horror movie about a man who checks his temperature every five minutes.

I swear I will go to the gym if I’m ever able to go back to a gym.

I wish I were an android because then I could say things like “Statistically speaking, the odds of dying from coronavirus, also known as COVID-19, are very small.” But I am flesh and blood, not metal and wires. I’m pretty certain Data wouldn’t stress sweat because he heard a man cough behind him in line at the grocery store.

I’m scared and that slightly embarrasses me. But I can rally if I must. For instance, I can play a hero if you need it. I am a champion tough talker. I’ll do my best Winston Churchill impersonation and tell you we will meet this challenge. This country, and its people, will do what is required to defeat this pandemic. I’m pretty good at making the kinds of speeches Generals or coaches are known for. It’s really too bad I was never in the military or part of a sports team. Just know when I tell you that we will get through this that I am freaking out inside. I don’t know, maybe James Bond is constantly panicking. There should be an entire movie that’s just Bond crying in bed and meditating.

I am freaking out despite knowing the one thing that all epidemics have in common is that they end, eventually. I am losing it. And this isn’t the kind of fear that gives one an edge. For instance: if you’re lost in an alligator-infested swamp a little fear can help you navigate your way out. In high-stress situations, fear can sharpen senses and slow time down.

No, I’m just scared. I am not a robot, I am not a badass, I am not a superhero. I’m just a regular man trying to live through a once-in-a-lifetime pandemic and I can’t sleep at night.

I know men who will never admit to being scared. One friend of mine is buying ammunition in case his suburbs turn into Mad Max: Fury Road overnight. Another buddy is an ER nurse, and he is in full-on adrenaline-pumping battle mode. I talked to one of my best friends on the phone last night. We talked about his new girlfriend and watching Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers on Netflix and we exchanged meatloaf recipes. What I didn’t tell him is that I’m on edge. That I’m worried. In fact, we didn’t even mention that we’re both trapped in our apartments.

One of the many weird consequences of this pandemic is I’m talking on the telephone more than I have in a long time. I’m having these rambling, podcast-length conversations with old friends about this and that. I find human voices to be comforting. I never thought the dystopia I’d live through is the one where I can’t hug people I love.

I find myself ending conversations with a variation of the line TV trash talk show host Jerry Springer would use at the end of his episodes: “Take care of yourself, and each other.” It always elicits a laugh.

What I should say is “I’m scared and I love you and we’re going to get through this together.”

So I’m sharing this with you. A stranger. I need the practice, so thank you for reading this far. Here we go: I’m scared and I love you and we’re going to get through this together.

Scene Seven: March 25th, 2020

This pandemic has broken me. Before the coronavirus forced me to self-quarantine I was a big picture man but now all I care about are the little things. I have never been a “stop and smell the roses” type of dude but I went on a walk around my deserted New York City neighborhood this morning and almost cried when I saw flower buds on trees.

In the span of a little over a week I have gone from doomsday prepper to a poet who sees beauty everywhere.

Since I’ve started practicing social distancing — the infection control strategy where people deliberately isolate themselves from others in order to slow the spread of a contagious disease — I have become ridiculously sentimental. I want to write long, sad lists of things I already miss, like bookstores and movie theater popcorn and hugging old friends.

But for the sake of my mental health, I can’t spend all my time sobbing like a tragic hero. I have very little control over my life but I can choose to celebrate what I have instead of mourning what I feel I’ve lost.

I am not in denial about the very real challenges society is facing. I’m still scared but I’m learning how to deal with those feelings. One way that I’m able to find some serenity is to count my blessings, no matter how tiny.

Look, I’m just a guy who blogs but I do know a few things, like don’t forget to breathe. Deeply! Fill those toes with air! Drink water, stretch, unclench that buttmeat. And, most of all, relish the infinitesimal joys of right now. They will help you get through. They will help us get through.

So please indulge me as I list the little things that are making my days not just tolerable but almost exquisite. I don’t want to suggest that I’m enjoying my solitude — I just would prefer it if I didn’t get sick nor got anyone else sick, either. But I’m thankful for the following:

Tea Tree Oil-Infused Toothpicks

I haven’t had a cigarette in four years but the only way I was able to quit was by becoming horribly addicted to expensive nicotine gum. My doctor didn’t say long-term use of the gum was unhealthy but he definitely didn’t say chomping stimulants all day and all night was a healthy idea. A month ago I managed to quit the gum with the help of spicy tea tree oil-infused toothpicks. I am thankful to have these tasty wooden spears that I stress chew until they disintegrate.

Video Chat Reunions

I have never liked video conferences. You’d think after a lifetime was watching, and re-watching, Star Trek I’d want to live a life where I talk to people on screens but nope. This was, of course, until the quarantine. I am super happy to jump on work video calls. I am also thrilled to talk to anyone, frankly. I had a reunion with former coworkers of mine from a mattress company over Zoom, the popular video conferencing software. I’m going to play poker with some dudes I haven’t seen in a long time on Zoom soon.

The Electric Charisma Of Mary Berry

I was upset when legendary BBC food personality Mary Berry left The Great British Bake-Off, a soothing reality competition about hobbits baking nice cakes. I have, however, happily discovered her co-hosting a show called Britain’s Best Home Cook (which is streaming on Hulu.) It’s okay! Just a bunch of home cooks from the UK all competing to make roasts and pies and burgers. The only reason I’m watching is because of Mary Berry, who is a bloody perfect human being. She’s like what you’d get if you crossed Mary Poppins with the Queen. All I want to do is watch her take delicate nibbles from dumplings. During one episode, she licked a spoon. I get gooseflesh thinking about it.

My Compact Vacuum Cleaner

My small vacuum cleaner is heavy. But I have learned to treasure that weight as I drag it around my apartment while sucking up dust and lint with its long tube-like nose. My small vacuum cleaner is heavy and loud. It roars! My dog hates it. The sounds its engine makes is so deafening I can’t hear anything or anyone. I’m not even sure my small vacuum cleaner does a great job cleaning but it feels good to go through the motions.

Instant Coffee

I have a fancy French Press and plenty of coffee for rich, flavorful pots of quality Joe. But I also bought a jar of Folgers instant coffee because sometimes I need nuclear-hot caffeine liquid immediately. I don’t want to grind and steep and stir. I just want to chug energy. Instant coffee tastes like shit but it gets the job done, especially when you’re in a hurry. I have been kicking my mornings off with a swallow or two and I’ll be honest: it’s invigorating and disgusting. I grew up drinking instant coffee because my parents loved the stuff. Once upon a time, instant coffee was a marvel of modern food science. A freeze-dried powder that — presto! — transformed into freshly-brewed java. We were a Folgers family because Folgers has “flavor crystals.” What’s a “flavor crystal”? Shhhhh *stirs instant coffee into hot water* have a nice cup of coffee and don’t worry about it.

Dollar Store Candles That Smell Like Cupcakes

I found four squat candles that smell intensely of vanilla that I had forgotten I bought months ago at my local dollar store. I think when I shop there I sort of go into a trance and just buy things because they’re so cheap. Anyway, I think I consigned them to the back of a cupboard because they smelled too… chemical. Well, I’m wrong. They smell wonderful.

Warren Zevon’s ‘Excitable Boy’ Vinyl Record

I’ve been listening to records more — -you know, just listening to thirty or so uninterrupted minutes of music while laying on the floor. It’s been a real break not listening to pop song after pop song through my earbuds. In a way, embracing vinyl has re-taught me to slow down. I take for granted that pretty much any song I could ever want lives inside the pocket-sized supercomputer I still call a “phone.” But chilling out listening to a musical story over the course of four or five songs per side? Then flipping the record over and doing it again? It’s been really relaxing. I’ve listened to sardonic singer-songwriter Warren Zevon’s iconic ’70s album about murder, machine guns, and werewolves Excitable Boy at least three times this week.

My Mom On Video Phone

When Texas’ Republican lieutenant governor Dan Patrick went on Fox News that he and other senior citizens would be willing to die to protect the stock market my mom called me and immediately said, and I quote, “You first, Lt. Gov. Patrick.” My mother is a 76-year-old Mexican-American woman who lives with two mutts in Austin Texas who loves to video chat on her phone, even if that means me staring at her nostrils. She calls me up and reminds me that New Yorkers are tough and that I’ll get through this and not to worry about her (which I do.) Sometimes, around midnight or so, she drives to Wal-Mart to walk around and shop, mindful to keep away from people. She also loves to make fun of Donald Trump, who isn’t a real man, not to her at least. Sometimes my brother makes an appearance and it’s a video party. We end each call with “I love you” and “take care” and then I wonder when I will be able to see her again.

‘The West Wing’ On Netflix

Aaron Sorkin’s 20-year-old fable about an honest president and all his smart, witty, capable men and women is comforting to watch even if there are some cringe-worthy moments of soft sexism (White House Press Secretary CJ Cregg, played by living legend Allison Janney, is written as a little too much as a ditzy dingbat.) I have been re-watching the first season of The West Wing because it hypnotizes me into believing someone in authority is going to do the selfless thing for their country. I know that sounds pathetic, but this political fantasy brings me joy! The West Wing is a show with zero ironies. It is a serious hourlong drama about serious-minded government officials doing serious work on behalf of their countrymen. It is romantic. It is cheesy. The characters are always on the move, walking and talking, saving the world. When they’re not lobbing clever quips at each other they’re making soaring patriotic speeches about the inherent goodness of America. Every episode is a bowl of candy. But Battlestar Galactica is a more believable show than The West Wing.

Oatmeal

I am living on a very strict budget, especially since I have no idea when this quarantine will be over, and also, you know, the economy is cratering and I don’t know if I’ll ever be employed full-time again. So I have enough oatmeal to thicken the Hudson. The nutritional value of oatmeal aside (fiber is good for you!) I am really loving my quiet ten minutes or so morning oatmeal-making ritual and even more than that, I am savoring every satisfying honey-kissed bite. (Oh yeah, I bought a bunch of honey. Honey is life!)

The New York City Subway

The 1 train rumbles past my living room window on an elevated track. My apartment’s windows are made with special glass so it’s not too loud. These days the trains are almost completely empty as they zoom by. Last month, during morning and evening rush hours, those cars would be crammed with human beings on their way to work or home. But now I watch these trains, without passengers, hurtle across their tracks every twenty minutes, and instead of feeling deeply saddened, I find myself inspired. New York City is still alive. The trains run, waiting for our return. And we will return.

Tolerance

My upstairs neighbor has chosen to learn the cello during this unprecedented health crisis. When he plays, it sounds like a medium-sized mammal sobbing. He has no aptitude for the instrument but instead of banging on the ceiling with a broom handle, I’m sort of rooting for him. He only practices a couple of hours a day so I go for a walk or put on my earbuds. He’s trapped inside, like me. He doesn’t have to do this. But he must know that self-quarantine is the smartest way to protect himself and those around him. So, good luck learning the cello, neighbor!

Hot Showers

Every night before bed I enjoy a nice long, muscle-melting hot shower. I once regarded showers as strictly a requirement of living. An essential clause in the social contract. I had to clean myself so I did not smell and offend other people. But now showering is self-indulgence. It’s my personal journey to a rainforest. I stand under the scalding water for 40 minutes and let every drop of water dribble down my body and carry my stress away. I soap up and shampoo and stretch. I inhale and exhale steam. The only downside of my hot shower is the fact that I have to wait 24 hours until the next one (I suppose I could shower more than once a day but a little anticipation doesn’t hurt.)

Coloring Books

A few Christmases ago my family got me a pair of oh-so-trendy at the time coloring books that I rolled my eyes at when I unwrapped them. Well, who's the jerk now? I have spent a number of blissful hours recently gently coloring inside wildly ornate patterns. I am shocked by how transporting it is. I can almost feel my brains’ neurons connecting to other neurons while I gently run a pink pencil back and forth over a patch of uncolored books.

Smoked Gouda Triscuits

A week or so before the call to stay inside and “flatten the curve” I panicked shopped for food and supplies. I bought toilet paper and hand sanitizer and canned soups. I also bought three boxes of Smoked Gouda Triscuits. I adore Triscuits because they’re like crackers with hairy chests. A truly substantial snack that can stand up to aged cheeses and fatty cold cuts. Smoked Gouda Triscuits are the best of the dozen or so flavors Triscuits produce. I have rarely encountered a chemical cheese flavor as delicious as the one I’m assuming is sprayed into each box of Smoked Gouda Triscuits. These are so good I could probably sell each cracker for $5 on the street.

Long Phone Calls

I talked to a friend of mine who lives 60 blocks away yesterday while walking my dog. We talked about feelings and Shakespeare and cooking and politics. He made me laugh out loud. It was like having one of my best friends live inside my ear.

Memes

My younger brother, a fully grown adult man from the Great State of Texas, text messages me dozens and dozens of memes he thinks are hilarious. Some are political, some are offensive, some are… amusing? I mean, memes are just bumper stickers, right? Anyway, he sends me memes inspired by The Simpsons and Star Wars. I enjoy any meme featuring Bane, Batman’s musclebound nemesis. He also makes sure I have a plentiful supply of funny coronavirus content to keep me laughing as I quake in fear in my small apartment. The memes that make me groan are as fun as the ones that make me howl. These memes are one way my brother tells me he loves me and he texts me memes multiple times a day.

Hearty Soups

The other day my girlfriend made what we call a McGuyver soup, which is when she uses what we have, and her own creativity, to invent a tasty soup. This recent MacGyver soup was poblano peppers, frozen broccoli, beans, and maybe six other ingredients. Sure, the soup was the color of a Gremlin smoothie but it was delicious. I don’t know how she made it. The first time she asked me to try it I shrugged because it tasted good enough. I reacted the same way after the second taste test. But she kept tinkering with the soup like a mad scientist and the third, fourth, and fifth taste tests were tastier than the last. I swear this soup cured me of my allergies. It’s magical. I am very thankful for my medicinal quarantine improv soup.

Sunlight

I have a very small one-bedroom apartment but I have one window that manages to capture every sunbeam the sun can throw at the earth in the early mornings. I like to wake up and then wash my face in golden sunlight. I have never been someone who tans but spending a few minutes every day soaking in sunlight has been healing. I literally feel like I’m charging an inner battery when I make a purposeful decision to sit and drink in some rays from the giant celestial ball of fire in the sky. You know, the one that will one day eat this world before collapsing on itself!

Checking In On Friends And Family

I am so thankful for random texts from the people in my life checking in on me and I’m so happy to return the favor. This is one of my greatest transformations, too. There was a time — January, maybe? — when I was a bit of a Scrooge when it came to getting a random text that read “How are you feeling?” I’d respond as if the question was an inconvenience somehow, and then I strangely as if there are no poor houses. I have struggled my whole life with intimacy — letting people in, especially those who love me without condition. When they’d ask how I was I’d recoil. It was too much to be honest with myself, much less them. But that was a hundred years ago. I’m a different man now that I’ve been visited by the Ghost of Pandemic Present. Are you okay? Seriously. Let me know in the comments. Me? I had a little anxiety today but otherwise, I’m feeling pretty grateful.

Comic Books

I was laid off a couple of years ago and a good friend of mine, Sam Thielman, met me for coffee. I don’t know if you’ve ever lost your job but there are people who won’t even return your calls because they think unemployment is contagious. But not Sam. Anyway, we met for coffee and he sneakily handed me a bag of comic books with the casualness of a Cold War spy. The graphic novels were a mix that included at least ten Hellboy books, Mike Mignola’s famous supernatural monster-killing character who has starred in three big-budget Hollywood movies. Sam also threw in a few surprises, including Stan Sakai’s Usagi Yojimbo and Warren Ellis’ Injection. I am rereading them now, only slowly, because I have nowhere to go. It’s wonderful.

My Dog, Morley Safer

I’ll get emotional if I write too much about my dog. There was a day last week I was too depressed to get out of bed and Morley licked my ears until I had no choice but to get up. And you know what? I felt better when I did. Morley is wise. She is the reincarnation of an ancient goddess. She is a daily reminder of the good things in life: naps, snacks, kisses, and more naps. That is her primary purpose, especially during the plague. If you have a dog, let them teach you how to live. If you have a cat, thank them for allowing you to live.

Clean Socks

When I’m feeling a little blue I change my socks. I do not know why this completely reboots my emotional state but it totally does and I highly recommend it. It feels so nice to peel off the old and slide into clean new foot gloves.

Fresh Lemons

My corner bodega is the only business open for blocks. The two dudes who run it are still very friendly even if they’re covering their faces with scarves and bandanas. I can tell they’re smiling behind their impromptu masks. Anyway, they are serving eggs and cheese on rolls during the apocalypse. They’re also doing an amazing job of keeping some very basics in stock, and that includes a small daily pile of lemons. I am not going to suffer from scurvy, that’s for sure. I love lemon juice as a dressing. I need it to brighten up canned tuna. And I also drink lots of water with lemon juice squeezed in. It’s a true luxury that I cherish.

A Jump Rope

I get bored exercising and one reason I like to jump rope is that it is time-efficient: ten minutes of jumping rope is equal to a half-hour run. So I guess it’s a bit of luck that I ordered a jump rope just in time for all the gyms to close en masse. I am grateful for my jump rope. I live near a riverside park where it’s easy for me to find a small patch of asphalt, either a pass or a tennis court, where I can jump, jump, jump.

A Plastic Virgin Mary Holy Water Bottle

My mother tucked a hollow, plastic statue of the Virgin Mary into my suitcase the night before I left for college. She had filled it with holy water. Later, I would refill it with vodka and drink from it like a sacrilegious flask. What can I say? I was a young alcoholic fully coming into my self-destructive powers. But that was a long time ago. I have held on to my mother’s secret gift for decades now. It has traveled with me from city to city, and apartment to apartment. My mother’s hope was that it would offer me protection. She wanted to make sure the Virgin Mary watched over her son. I keep the statue near my television. I pick it up and carry it around. It helps me think. I sometimes hold it when I pray to my higher power. I know it’s just a plastic water bottle but it makes me feel a little better. I’m glad I have it.

Scene Eight: March 27, 2020

The high-priests of conservative politics have spent the past few weeks struggling to respond to the growing coronavirus pandemic that has swept across the globe. At first, radio hosts like Rush Limbaugh compared the uncommon virus to the common flu, which is not true.

Next, the President of the United States spent too much time trying to dismiss the seriousness of the coronavirus. He had some help on Fox News, too, especially Trish Regan who suggested the virus was, in fact, a liberal conspiracy. But, so far, history has refused to allow conservatives to bullshit the illness away: hospitals are filling up, tens of millions of Americans are in self-quarantine, and the stock market is collapsing. This is an undeniable public health crisis.

The economy, of course, is the only thing that matters to conservatives. The president’s primary reelection argument up until this crisis was that his mix of tax and regulation cuts made America richer. But that’s old news. The once white-hot stock market is cold pizza. To the president, a recession is worse than a deadly respiratory illness. He wants America to return to business as usual by Easter, despite experts warning against making such announcements. You can’t wear a new spring dress if you’re on life support.

Instead of grimly accepting responsibility for their previous cowardice and leading the nation with newfound seriousness, conservatives have decided the only way to save the economy (and their political fortunes) is to convince people to go outside, browse a bookstore, eat at a buffet, and catch a respiratory illness that sends at least 20% of its victims to emergency rooms.

At least Republicans aren’t lying anymore. They are being honest about what’s important to them. First, Wall Street must be protected at all costs. Second, social distancing must end. It doesn’t matter how dangerous the virus is, Americans need to return to their little lives of empty consumption.

Their new idea is human sacrifice. Shop till you drop, literally.

On Fox News, Texas Lt. Governor Dan Patrick told Tucker Carlson that America’s senior citizens should risk contracting coronavirus in order to save the economy. “Those of us who are 70-plus, we’ll take care of ourselves,” he said. It is the esteemed opinion of Lt. Governor Patrick that vulnerable people should go bargain hunt, eat frozen yogurt, and play BINGO. And if their lungs fill with fluid while this is happening? They were doing their patriotic duty.

Meanwhile, conservative blabbermouth Glenn Beck heroically announced that he’d “rather have my children stay home and all of us who are over 50 go in and keep this economy going.” Beck didn’t stop there: “Even if we all get sick, I would rather die than kill the country. Because it’s not the economy that’s dying, it’s the country.”

I don’t know if you remember when Beck once suggested the Affordable Care Act would create ‘death panels’ of faceless bureaucrats that would make life and death choices for the elderly. This was, of course, a horrible little partisan lie. But time heals all wounds, I suppose.

The greatest generation made stunning sacrifices to fight fascism in Europe. Modern conservatives want other people, old and middle-class mostly, to sacrifice their life so White House Economic Advisor Larry Kudlow doesn’t have to give up a vacation home.

America is a few thousand very wealthy white people asking millions of less wealthy people to offer their lives to appease an angry money god.

All of this, of course, reminds me of last year’s tremendous horror movie Midsommar. The 148-minute long fever dream written and directed by Ari Aster follows a group of Americans who visit a small Swedish village celebrating an ancient midsummer festival. The village is populated by friendly white people who welcome their new guests with open arms. I don’t want to give too much of the movie away but everything goes horribly wrong because the white people are insane religious fanatics. Imagine watching HGTV while losing your mind on LSD and then God shows up. That was the experience for me. The ending is thrilling and terrifying, especially the final nanosecond before all of reality is obliterated.

I don’t know if I enjoyed watching Midsommar but it’s a movie that lives inside me now and I can never forget it. Even better, I’m now living it. America is a death cult run by crazy white people.

So there’s a scene near the middle of the movie I want to mention. It’s a couple of moments when both the innocent Americans and the audience suddenly realize shit is fucked up in the Land That Gave Us IKEA. The village gathers to stare up at an ättestupa, which is a Swedish word for a precipice or cliff. Everyone is high on mushroom tea, by the way. Suddenly, a pair of elderly villagers appear — a man and woman — and they both jump off the ättestupa. Their bodies crash on the rocks below. The woman dies but the old man barely survives and he has his head crushed by a large ceremonial mallet. It is explained to the horrified Americans that this is just how it is when you turn 72.

I thought that the scene was delightfully horrifying and now I get to live in a reality where one of America’s two political parties is basically suggesting 70somethings should jump off cliffs for the sake of the village. Later in the movie, the young are burned alive.

Scene Nine: April 1, 2020

I am spending the pandemic eating carbs. Specifically, toast. Yes, that’s right, sliced bread browned on both sides. It is literally the easiest thing you can make in a kitchen and it’s worth it, especially now.

The plague cannot infect me so long as I am eating my toast. It cannot find me. The crunch of my teeth gently crushing warm crusty bread is a small sound that I can hide inside. I can make a slice of toast disappear with six bites and each bite is a prayer. I have toast in the morning because that is proper. A cup of tea or coffee and toast. This is what civilized people do and I am civilized.

But I also have a toast at night. A plague once descended on ancient Athens that was so severe the citizens turned their backs on the laws of men and gods and lived immorally. Life was too short. That is me, right now. I eat breakfast at midnight like I’ve lost faith in the order of the universe.

Here’s how to make toast. First, be thankful for whatever you have in your life that is good. I try to feel gratitude as much as I can. Are you healthy? Then nothing else matters. Do you have cans of beans? Praise the Almighty. Have you talked to friends on the phone? What a blessing. I am thankful that I’m able to rewatch all 62 episodes of Breaking Bad on an inexpensive flat-screen TV.

But most of all I am thankful for toast. I am thankful that I am able to use heat to transform a rectangle of gluten into a pleasantly crisp vehicle for butter or jam. I am thankful that I have a quiet ritual that teaches me the value of deliberate action and, most of all, pleasure. This is the only antidote to the chaos of these dark days that I know. So I nibble my toast and force the fear to wait until I am done. I will deal with you, fear, on my terms.

There is a time to be afraid and a time to make toast. The recipe for making toast is very short. You toast bread, then scrape delicious stuff on it, like cream cheese, or strawberry preserves, or whitefish salad. You don’t have to smear anything on your toast if you don’t want to. How should you eat toast? Any way you want.

I prefer butter. There’s a brand of Irish butter that I am quite fond of. In early March, when I was first becoming aware that a pandemic was inevitable, I went on my first panic shopping spree. I bought canned soups and mac and cheese and frozen peas and bread. I didn’t plan very well. But I also bought three boxes of my favorite butter and if re-building civilization were to somehow fall upon my shoulders I would make this creamy butter the fatty foundation of my utopia.

I love butter. I especially love scraping it over toast. It’s like painting with a brush. But what if you don’t like butter? That’s perfectly okay. I understand there are many lovely kinds of vegan butter available for those of us who don’t enjoy eating animal products.

You do not need butter, of course. A butterless life is still very much worth living. You can use honey, or orange marmalade, or peanut butter. Beans on toast? Oh my. A fried egg? Beautiful. There was a time when I loved avocado toast, even if that popular brunch snack is just nachos for snobs.

The great thing about toast is that it can stand up to all sorts of finger-licking punishment. My older brother, who I’m pretty sure was born a U.S. Marine, introduced me to the all-American meal ‘shit on a shingle, ‘ or ‘S.O.S.’ Have you ever heard of it? It’s basically leftovers slopped on a piece of toast. My favorite childhood variation was warmed-up spaghetti with meat sauce poured on toasted Wonder Bread. A fancy restaurant would call this an “open-face sandwich.” They would not be wrong. (But it’s still just ‘shit on a shingle.’)

My point is, though, you don’t need butter or spaghetti. You can eat your toast dry if you want. Remember: the crunch bends space and time.

Do you know what else you don’t need? A toaster. It is very helpful! But you should be able to toast bread under your oven’s broiler. You just need to keep an eye on it or it will burn. This happens very quickly so be forewarned. And don’t forget to flip the bread.

So far so good but you are going to need bread. I’m sorry. I have two loaves of that sprouted grain bread in the orange bag that normally lives in the frozen food section of grocery stores. It is not my favorite sliced baked good but it can live forever in the freezer plus it’s healthier than plain white bread. I am a huge fan of white bread, even if it has almost zero nutritional value. I have a theory that white bread isn’t even baked. In some remote factory, somewhere, two chemicals are combined in a mold where a loaf then grows.

I thought about buying a loaf of white bread but I knew I needed bread that stayed fresh longer than most and that’s why I have two loaves chilling in my refrigerator. I have however bravely visited my local farmer’s market for greens and bought a few loaves of peasant bread from an upstate New York bakery. The farmer’s market was not messing around: all interactions happened over ropes and the lines were long because everyone was six feet away from each other. A little old lady dressed for a moon landing cut in front of me in line and I let her.

A month ago buying fresh bread from the market required zero emotional energy and now it requires all of it. Whenever I go outside I feel like Indiana Jones running from a giant boulder.

So I have plenty of bread, both fresh and not-so-fresh. I hope you have some bread because I cannot recommend the healing properties of toast enough. Here’s a recap: place a slice of bread in a toaster or under a broiler. Close your eyes. Inhale deeply and exhale. Count to sixty. Check on your bread. I like my toast cooked for a minute and thirty seconds, tops. That means it’s lightly browned. Some people like it burned more. That’s up to you. Then put whatever you want, or have, on the toast. Enjoy. And I’m serious: enjoy your toast. It is a brief reminder that the good things in life are measured in mouthfuls.

The normal act of buttering toasted bread is saving my life. I’m trying to fill my days with ordinary little chores: I make my bed, I brush my teeth, I sweep the floor. I know the world is broken but I can tidy my little corner until this pestilence passes. We will survive, one piece of toast at a time.

Scene Ten: April 4th, 2020

The coronavirus has marched across oceans and countries and streets and up nasal passageways and down throats and infected over a million people worldwide, killing almost sixty thousand. The virus knocks on our doors with a skeleton’s fist. I don’t answer. I like the illness where it is: outside. Away from me. A forty-something man.

In New York City, 62% of those who have died from coronavirus complications have been men.

So I know I’m in danger. You’re in danger, too. Science told me so. Until there’s a 100% cure the only 100% cure is to self-isolate and limit human contact. This is the best strategy we have for slowing the spread of the infection.

I am a man who is not fucking around. I listen to the experts. I am rich with beans. The secret knock to get inside my apartment is…. trick question, there is no secret knock I’m not letting anyone in. When it comes to washing my hands I like to imagine tens of billions of viruses all screaming in pain, drowning in soap lather and hot water.

I am taking this plague seriously because I plan on dying of natural causes. My preferred natural cause of death is “quietly during a nap after a sandwich at 90 years old.”

I am constantly reading about COVID-19 because I have a lot of time to read articles that terrify me. COVID-19 is another term for coronavirus. That’s something I know. Here’s what else I know: COVID-19 is killing more men than women. There is ample data from China, Italy, and South Korea that clearly shows the virus is deadlier to men than women. In Italy, for instance, 8% of men died compared to 5% who were women.

In the U.S., the Centers for Disease Control are not keeping track of this data and I wish they would. Thankfully, states are doing it. But I’ll just add that wish to my personal pile of wishes, which also include a humble desire that the President’s know-it-all son-in-law not be put in charge of the health and well-being of tens of millions of Americans. But at least one of the White House’s top doctors, Dr. Deborah Birx, has confirmed that men are twice as likely as women to die from coronavirus.

The research is clear that men are more vulnerable to the coronavirus than women and no one knows why. But there are theories. One says that men are just unhealthier than women and therefore more susceptible to infection. In China, for instance, the majority of cigarette smokers are men.

Another says men just don’t take health warnings seriously. A recent Reuters/Ipsos poll found that 45% of men were “very concerned” about the pandemic versus 54% of women. In the same poll, one out of four men said that people were “unnecessarily panicking” over the coronavirus. These same men are also prone to blaming the media for freaking out the public.

Here’s a story from the media: The first recorded death from coronavirus in Miami, Florida was a 40-year-old man who got sick after attending a beach party.

There’s another theory. A simpler one. The immune systems of women are just stronger. Men may have more muscle mass but you can’t arm wrestle the coronavirus. We’re actually the weaker sex and it makes us crazy.

I want to be Crystal Pepsi clear: if you’re a man, make sure you’re social distancing. Stay inside. I know it’s not manly to be afraid of a sore throat or a hacking cough. But do your best not to be a disease vector. I don’t want to write these sentences but there is just too much proof that men aren’t listening to reason, at least when it comes to the pandemic.

I don’t care if you’re a former Navy SEAL who can chop down trees with his hands. This disease is killing men of all ages. There are plenty of terrifying stories of otherwise healthy dudes developing pneumonia overnight. It can happen to you. I’ll be honest: the odds are you won’t die from coronavirus complications but the risk of being eaten by a shark is low, too. So why go swimming in a bacon speedo?

Sit on your couch for a few months or until you get an all-clear. Then you can go out and do whatever real men like to do, like recreational HALO jumps or giant squid wrestling or whatever.

Do you know what really says “I’m a big strong man” in the year of our Lord two thousand and twenty? Baking bread. Finishing a jigsaw puzzle. Looking out your window while sipping tea from an oversized mug.

You know what says “weak-ass shrimp?” Ignoring warnings from experts. Arguing with strangers on the internet that the public health threat is overblown. Hanging out as if the world hasn’t completely and totally changed overnight. I don’t know if life will ever return to normal but guess what? If it ever does, it’s not going to be anytime soon. Get used to this. And memorize this website: CDC.gov.

Do you know how during medieval castle sieges the enemy outside would catapult plague-infected animal carcasses over the walls? Well, the goal here is to not be the diseased cow. Do not be a moo-derer. That’s a little pandemic humor. I know it’s not funny but I don’t care. The only way to keep tens of thousands of Americans alive is if we continue to try to “flatten the curve” state by state.

I don’t know if you know any dudes who refuse to accept the easily verifiable truth that a highly-communicable disease is overwhelming hospitals but I sure do. And anecdotes of men behaving badly abound.

I saw two dudes jogging along the Hudson River in the distance as I was carefully walking my dog. They were close enough to high-five and you know what? They did. I screamed “you fantastic jackasses” at them from behind a homemade mask.

I know at least one dude who is out and about trying to live his best life. This guy complained that his favorite wine bar was closed on social media. He even met a woman for a picnic date and just to be fair, I’m fairly certain she’s no Nobel Prize winner either.

Bro, if you’re reading this: you are just as vulnerable to this illness as anyone else, and even worse, you could be an asymptomatic carrier, which means you could be spreading the virus without exhibiting any symptoms. A classic douche move.

I get it though. I do. I once shot Roman candles off a sixth-floor fire escape drunk because I thought I was invincible. I am lucky I did not fall or set myself on fire. There is an alternate reality where a bored pair of firemen have to put out my burning body splattered on the concrete. But it didn’t happen that night.

I’m lucky to be alive. I think most middle-aged men can make that claim.

I don’t know if it’s biology or social conditioning that makes men think they’re going to live forever. Especially young men. I guess that’s why it’s so easy to talk them into going to war.

If I had to guess I’d say the male appetite for risk is a fun mix of evolution and culture. The species needs to break a few eggs here and there to make the omelet known as civilization. In return, the patriarchy grants men the profound privilege of thinking they’re not subject to the laws of nature. A man does not set off fireworks one hundred feet in the air wasted on Tequila if he truly respects gravity. I was fearless because I was told I could be.

The history of masculinity can be told in the various ways men die: sabretooth tiger, sword, noose, bullets, torn parachute, car crash. “Hey, look at me!” Plague. Being a man is dangerous to your health.

Scene Eleven: April 17th, 2020

We’re all living our own version of Steven Soderbergh’s movie Contagion, a 2011 thriller about a killer virus that has become a sort of new classic.

My personal pandemic movie started in early March. The coronavirus had spread to Europe from China and was finally in America. But I was still riding the New York City subway train to therapy. I went and saw a new production of West Side Story on Broadway. I ate a yellow cheese omelet with a side of coleslaw at a diner. I didn’t know at the time how good I had it.

The next part of my movie is also probably familiar to many. Empty grocery store shelves. Frantic calls to pharmacies. Closed doors. Panic attacks over the toaster. A morning phone call with terrible, world-breaking news. A test. Weeks in a room, alone, scared. A growing rage at dithering leaders too concerned with saving face than lives. We are all in a life-and-death battle with the plague. Our movies are both different and the same.

I humbly present six potential endings to my personal pandemic movie. It’s tentatively titled Contagion 2: DeVoravirus. These minutes are not the beginning, nor the second act, or the climax. I am pretty sure I’m not going to write a screenplay about these strange, dark days but if I did, here are the brief scenes and montages I’d consider before typing FADE OUT. THE END. FYI: I am portrayed by Academy-Award-winning actor Matt Damon in each.

1.I slowly open the door but the chain lock stops me. “Go away,” I whisper through the crack before shutting the door. There is silence. Then the sound of two heavy deadbolts sliding into place. Then silence, again. A Sunday morning quiet. The sound of statues weeping. The entire apartment building, silent. The hallways, the staircases, unblinking eyeballs stare through peepholes.

2. I kick open my door. I am ripped after months of pushups in my 500 square-foot Harlem apartment. I am wearing nothing but star-spangled short shorts. I’m also wearing an American flag like a cape. I found it in a trashcan during a 3 AM walk. I tie it around my neck and God bless. There will be more capes in this brave new world! My muscles glisten and glean. I walk outside and inhale the sunbeams. Then I start strutting down the middle of the street singing James Brown’s classic ’80s hit ‘Livin’ In America.’ It’s a soulful locomotive of an anthem about freedom and road-trippin’ and rock and roll and great cities like New Orleans and Atlanta and Pittsburgh. The song is rude and jazzy and I am pumped. You may remember the song from 1985’s Rocky IV, a classic drama about an average man versus communism, Karl Marx’s enduring political theory that says sharing is nice. Anyway, America finally kicked the coronavirus’ ass the way Rocky clobbered Ivan Drago! Fuck yeah. Cars pull over for me. Construction workers stop their jackhammering. People see me from their windows and run to join my march of total awesomeness. I lead a diverse parade of human beings fueled by funk and love, truth and beauty. In Central Park, we all dance naked around a bonfire.

3. I wear a mask and patiently stand in line. The mask is an Amazon Prime respirator. You can buy them by the dozens now, along with Super Soaker-sized water guns filled with hand sanitizer. Capitalism didn’t break, it just mutated, slowly. When I get to the head of the line I show off a new ID card with my proof of vaccination. I am allowed in by security guards wearing sophisticated respirators and I get into another line where I will eventually order a burrito bowl with chicken, pinto beans, pico de gallo, and extra guacamole.

4.“I’m too old to be drafted,” I shout into the phone. It turns out, I’m not. The war with China is going as well as the initial pandemic response. In the future there are three choices: fight the Reds or contract the virus during one of America’s now famous ‘freedom outbreaks.’ The third choice is hard labor at a Federal coronavirus colony. Gravedigging, mostly. Our elected officials thought the nation would forgive and forget their shockingly inept handling of the plague if they started a land war in Asia. Fox News calls it World War Flu. They were wrong, again. I tell the recruiter that I’m middle-aged and chubby and have high blood pressure and he told me to cheer up, there’s a Pizza Hut on the transport ship. Uncle Sam needs new meat, even if it’s past the expiration date. I am then told to report to New York’s Javits Center for immediate processing or face exile to Florida.

5.I sit on a park bench by a pond. The sun is out. Normally, I sit in the dark in front of three screens: to my left is an endless scroll of updates and information from social media, and to the right real-time readouts of my vital signs: temperature, pulse, respiration rate, and blood pressure. The middle screen is playing Will Smith’s 2007 classic I Am Legend, about a war between nocturnal vampires and the last man on Earth, on a loop. I sometimes feel like the last man on earth but I can hear other last men shuffling around in their rooms above and below me, and to both my sides. But today is special. There is a breeze. I feed pigeons crackers I pick up from a local grocery store that is heavily subsidized by the government. I call them my “Soylent Greenies” but no one gets the reference. I am allowed to sit at this park once every three months for one hour. When I am done I put the bulky suit back on and head underground.

6. We finally get together. It has been a couple of years, but no more. This is not the funeral. That will happen soon enough. He waited this long, he can wait a little longer. The table is full of food: pasta and brisket and fresh rye bread, his recipe or as close as we could get it. A knife is shared. The butter is soft. An old man tells a corny joke. A toddler runs on new legs. There is a brief talk of vaccines and drug cocktails, but we’ve all had enough of that conversation. I say ‘hello’ to someone I haven’t seen in a long time. We shake hands and slap backs and move on to other friends. Everyone is greyer, more wrinkled, a truth everyone points out. We talk about football and movie theaters and for a few hours, we are not afraid. There is warmth and light and those we’ve lost watch us from outside through the window and they smile because we’re safe and happy for now and so, satisfied, they put their hands in pockets, and walk into the darkness, the glowing window growing smaller and smaller behind them until the only light are the stars underfoot, a midnight stroll to a peaceful place and many, many years from now I’ll walk that same twinkling path and they’ll be waiting for me. All of them. And we will hug.

Scene Twelve: April 30th, 2020

A few years ago I found myself hanging out with Richard, my girlfriend’s father, in his domain — the family living room. This wasn’t my idea and it wasn’t his idea. It was my girlfriend Emilyn’s idea because she shared her father’s mischievous sense of humor.

So, I sat and silently judged the books on his bookshelves while he watched TV. After a few awkward minutes, I broke the silence.

“So you like Dickens, huh?”

He grunted.

“Poetry, too.”

He grunted again. A few more moments floated by. “Grab that one,” he suggested, pointing to an old green book on the top of a pile.

So I did.

“Open it up and read the first joke you see and I’ll finish it.”

I turned to page 430 and read aloud: “Two old men sat silently over their glasses of tea for what might have been, or at any rate seemed, hours. At last, one spoke: “Oy, vey!” The other said — ”

Her old man shrugged and in a perfect Yiddish accent quipped: “You’re telling me!”

A few months later Richard gave me that book as a present.

“What else do you need?” my doctor asked me.

What I wanted to say was: a cure? A pill that reverses time? A promise that I’ll live happily ever after?

Instead, I said “A nice schmaltz herring.” It was a reference to a book titled A Treasury Of Jewish Folklore.

I was talking to him via video chat. This was the first time I’d ever met with him virtually. I’d known the man for almost fifteen years. This was the first time I’d ever seen him wear a mask. This was the first time I’d ever seen him scared. His comfortable little office wasn’t safe.

The visit was quick: he told me to immediately quarantine myself in a bedroom. I was to have no contact with anyone for 14 days. I told him I was living with my fiancée, Emilyn. He said it would be best if she could relocate but if not she should leave my meals at my door. I should only leave my room to use the bathroom. I should wear a mask. I should clean the bathroom after each use and return immediately to my room.

He told me to email him if I developed the telltale symptoms: low-grade fever, dry cough, sore throat. I may experience intense chills, diarrhea, or a loss of taste and smell. If I am unable to catch my breath call 911. I was to tell my partner to call 911 if I became confused.

I told him she tested negative. I stuttered: maybe she’s immune? His response was a tense “you can’t assume that.” I was contagious and I needed to act accordingly. I told him I would do exactly as he instructed.

“What else do you need?” he asked.

“A nice schmaltz herring.”

I ended the call. I shut the door. I leaned against the door. I could feel Emilyn on the other side.

So here’s the joke. Okay, it’s less of a joke and more of a short story with a funny-ish kicker really. Instead of transcribing it from the book, I’m going to write it from memory because these kinds of things should be memorized. I used to think it was corny to tell, you know, rib-ticklers but that was months ago. I wish I could tell a joke to someone’s face.

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. It’s titled The Realist:

After winning an intense battle Napoleon himself decided to reward a handful of men of different nationalities who had fought bravely on his behalf.

“Name your wish and I will grant it, my gallant heroes,” cried the Emperor.

“Restore Poland!” cried a Pole.

“It shall be done,” answered the Emperor.

“I”m a farmer — -I want land!” cried a Slovak.

“And so you shall have land, my lad.”

“I want a brewery,” said a German.

“Give him a brewery,” commanded Napoleon.

Next, it was a Jewish soldier’s turn.

“What shall it be, my lad?” said the Emperor, smiling.

“If you please, sir, I would like to have a nice schmaltz herring,” whispered the bashful Jew.

“Ma foi!” exclaimed the Emperor, shrugging his shoulders. “Give this man herring!”

Once the Emperor had left, the other soldiers gathered around the Jew.

“What a fool you are!” they laughed. “Imagine, an Emperor asks him to choose anything he wants and he asks for herring!”

“We’ll see who’s the fool,” said the Jew. “You’ve asked for the liberation of Poland, for a farm, for a brewery — things you’ll never get from the Emperor. But you see, I’m a realist. If I ask for a herring — maybe I’ll get it.”

To be honest, I don’t know if I laughed when I first read that. I didn’t laugh when I wrote it out. But there is something funny — and comforting — about the punchline. If I keep my expectations low I’ll rarely be disappointed.

I tested positive for exposure to COVID-19 on April 12th, 2020. The only reason I was able to get a test was that Emilyn’s father had died three days before, on the 9th, from COVID-19 complications. Her sister is immunocompromised so it seemed like the smart thing to do.

I won’t keep you in suspense: I never developed symptoms even though I woke up every morning of my quarantine convinced that I had them all. This virus is not a joke but my hypochondria is funny, from far away, like an angry moose. I had read about the unpredictability of the virus. I knew it was potentially lethal. I now had first-hand experience with how quickly and cruelly it can attack a human being. He complained of a fever on a Thursday and was gone six days later.

The majority of people who test positive for exposure to COVID-19 are asymptomatic, but they’re still highly contagious. There is so much we don’t know about this virus.

The decision to get tested was made quickly. We were scared but it had to be done. So Emilyn drove us to the hospital for the drive-through test on a cold, cloudy Thursday morning. Our car was one of dozens of cars lined up to get a coronavirus test, the world’s saddest parade.

There were three tents. At the first, workers in masks looked through our windshield at the information we, per prior instructions, had scrawled on large sheets of paper: name, date of birth, time of appointment. At the second tent, specimen bags were stuck under our windshield wipers. The third tent — the big tent — was where nurses in hazmat suits motioned to roll down the window so they could stick a long, stiff swab deep into both nasal cavities.

The pandemic had suddenly transformed that innocent symbol of American success and convenience — the drive-thru — into a scene from a disaster movie. “I wish I could have gotten fries with that,” I muttered.

“Meeting the father” is one of my least favorite relationship benchmarks. I mean, I know it’s important to show respect, yadda-yadda-yadda, but the whole ritual is so… patriarchal. I’m not interested in daddy’s little girl. I’m dating an adult person, you know?

I didn’t really want to meet him at first, after all, I had only been dating his daughter for a few months. He didn’t really want to meet me for similar reasons either. But she won and we all had dinner where he jokingly asked me what my intentions were with Emilyn. I thought about the question for a moment and answered: “I was hoping I’d get a free meal out of it.”

I miss him. I missed him the moment we got the phone call that the EMTs had been wrong: he was far sicker than they knew. We went to bed that night thinking he’d make it through the night. I still can’t believe he’s gone.

The man was a locomotive. He held a law degree from Harvard but would frequently meet friends by saying “nu?” a working-class Yiddish word that can mean “do tell” or “and?” It’s a greeting and a question and a nudge, an all-in-one linguistic multitool. He could curse like, well, a son of Brooklyn but could quote Yeats. He had proudly worked for feminists and leftists but despised political correctness. He delighted in such contradictions. He could be rude as hell, and gentle when he wanted to be. He was not unskilled at playing the piano — even though he had cut off half a finger long ago during a home carpentry project gone horribly wrong.

Richard was a local politician who pissed off billionaires and a lawyer who tormented the powerful and he baked amazing loaves of rye bread. I transported one from New York City to Austin, Texas this past Christmas, a gift from him to my mother. He was a mensch who would brook no bullshit.

He loved to argue and he argued while smiling. He loved jokes about rabbis and schnorrers and schlemiels. And, most of all, he loved his daughters, Emilyn and Willie.

I am not a Jew, which Richard noticed. I have often been mistaken for one during the twenty or so years I’ve lived in New York City. But Richard knew from the get-go that his daughter hadn’t brought home a nice Jewish boy. Nobody’s perfect.

I was, in fact, raised a Catholic by a Mexican-American woman and the son of a Baptist preacher. Catholics aren’t known for their humor. You can’t own billions of dollars worth of palaces and cathedrals all around the world and be funny. However, the Baptists, those famous goody-goodies, love to whisper dirty jokes.

I suppose Jesus himself had a very subtle sense of humor. His parables were not funny. But freaking out your buddies by walking on water? Hilarious.

I would never have admitted it to Richard but there were times it was my idea that he and I hang out. We made each other laugh.

I would praise his cooking (especially his mushroom pasta which I ate with gusto). He once mentioned Mel Brooks’ comedy classic Young Frankenstein and I burst out into my own version of the monster scream-singing Irving Berlin’s “Puttin’ On The Ritz.” I wanted him to know I appreciated art.

Then there was the time I told him that the Jews and Mexicans have a lot in common. They’re both proud desert people. Both love unleavened bread. And, you know, thousands of years ago, Jews built pyramids. Well, so did Mexicans! He thought about that last one. “Yeah, but we were slaves,” he responded.

When I told my mom I was spending Christmas with Emilyn’s family she asked: “But they’re Jewish?” I reminded her that Jesus was a nice Jewish boy. On Christmas morning I recognized the old book the moment I unwrapped it. A Treasury Of Jewish Folklore. He was giving me a book he loved as a child so naturally, I said: “A used book. This is a gift?” He chuckled and told me to read it. Eventually, I would.

A Treasury of Jewish Folklore, edited by Nathan Ausubel, is a 700-page collection of Jewish wit and wisdom published in 1948. The book is 2500 years worth of jokes and parables and moral lessons about struggle and oppression and misery and I started reading it the moment I realized I was going to have to sit in an 80 square foot room for two weeks.

There are jokes in the book featuring beloved Jewish cultural archetypes, like the schnorrer, who is a sort of a charming mooch. A schnorrer is someone who’s in it for a free meal. There are plenty of matchmaker jokes, too. “She limps,” he complained. “Only when she walks,” replied the matchmaker.

There’s even a section of talking animal stories. This book has it all.

My favorite kind of story features some ordinary Jew outthinking and outtalking a Roman or a Sultan or, yes, even a Nazi. The folk tales in those pages burst with life — messy, passionate, heartbreaking. It is a vivid record of a wise and rootless civilization that has suffered for thousands of years and refused to surrender. These people endured unimaginable hardships and if they can do that, and laugh, then I can get through two weeks in solitary confinement.

According to Ausubel, Jews wear “the armor of laughter” to protect against the barbs of the world. They learned how to laugh until it hurts, literally, and figuratively. In his book are allegories and knee-slappers that mix grief and joy because life is big portions of both.

It’s true, the Jews do love a zinger. Some would say too much? It is even written in the Talmud thusly: “Who is a hero? He who suppresses the urge to tell a joke.” Now, that’s a sick burn. Jewish humor isn’t cruel or mean-spirited. But it isn’t timid either. They ridicule greed and hypocrisy and smug ignorance. And, most of all, they make fun of themselves, because all God’s children are schmucks, from time to time.

The book isn’t all jokes — it’s mostly stories about clever holy men and noble paupers and, of course, prophets like Moses and kings like Solomon. The stories are uniquely Jewish but also universal. They celebrate education and selflessness. To live a good life is to be honest with yourself. To be righteous is to stand up to injustice. To be moral is to do good even if it means defeat.

A person who has nothing has everything so long as he is loved and respected by his friends and family. And we loved and respected Richard.

It was hard to concentrate in quarantine. I’d spend my days sleeping, or texting Emilyn in the next room, or staring out my window like a Victorian ghost. The panic attacks didn’t help. I’d take my temperature hourly, waiting for evidence of infection. But A Treasury Of Jewish Folklore was always on my night table, ready to be picked up and read for a few minutes.

No matter what page I turned to, I always found something that made me smile or realize that I was not alone. That I have never been alone. I was especially fond of all the Nazi jokes, too. They were angry but, also, oddly forgiving.

A Treasury of Jewish Folklore was published a few years after the end of the Second World War after the horrors of the holocaust were fully revealed. The New York Times pointed this out in their review:

Ironically and sadly it is issued at a time when the originators of this wealth, or rather their heirs, have virtually disappeared from the globe. For most of the material so painstakingly collected by Mr. Ausubel was produced in the “Old Country,” in those strange and remote ghettos of East-Central Europe. Most of the story-tellers, or at least their children and grandchildren have perished in the crematoria of Auschwitz and Maidanek.

Nineteen years later, Mel Brooks would release a comedy with a legendary scene: Hitler singing in a Broadway musical. The movie was called The Producers, and at the time, mocking German Nazis was shocking, since so many of them were still alive and well.

The Producers was one of Richard’s favorite movies. That, and The Godfather. What can I say? The man had layers.

I guess editor Nathan Ausubel was ahead of his time. There’s a story he includes about a Jew who saved Hitler’s life. Because it is right to help people. Anyway, despite being a Jew, Hitler grants him one wish. “Don’t tell anyone,” says the Jew.

Richard had read this book as a boy in quarantine. When he was eight years old he contracted polio and had to spend weeks in a room recovering. He spent hours memorizing whole sections of A Treasury of Jewish Folklore because what other choice did he have?

He read those tales of wily Jews and Biblical heroes and wise old men sitting in his sickbed and, I swear, he sat with me in my room and told me jokes in a thick Yiddish accent. He made me laugh and forget my worries. Plague, shmlague.

Here’s one of our favorites. I memorized it. It’s titled Equally Logical:

A group of Nazis surrounded an elderly Berlin Jew and demanded of him, “Tell us, Jew, who caused the war?”

The little Jew was no fool. “The Jews,” he said, then added, “and the bicycle riders.”

The Nazis were puzzled. “Why the bicycle riders?”

“Why the Jews?” answered the little old man.

There will come a time when this pandemic becomes history. I hope to live long enough to talk about what these past few months were like with a new generation. The fear. The isolation. The sounds of non-stop ambulance sirens. The inescapable smell of hand sanitizer. The anger that we could have done more to stop the spread of the virus but we couldn’t bother to put forth the effort.

I will remember missing my own family in Texas. My glasses fogging up because of the face masks. The endless grim statistics. The not knowing. I will also remember standing on the lawn of Emilyn’s family’s house and staring at her mother and sister from six feet away as the funeral home director loaded his body into the back of a van. A few moments earlier, the bag had been unzipped so his daughters could say goodbye, at a distance.

This is the pandemic, at least to me. It’s not photos of sourdough bread posted on social media nor is it jokes about not wearing pants to virtual meetings. It’s not even the politicians who failed the country — cowards, every one of them. No. The pandemic of 2020 will always be two sisters and a mother unable to console or comfort one another.

A few days later we held an online video conference service for friends and family which was better than nothing. One old Jew noted, “at least there’s no bad seat on Zoom!”

The last time I saw Richard alive was at a funeral a month or so before he passed. A relative had died, suddenly. It was a tragedy. I think all funerals should be Jewish funerals: the deceased is put into the ground as soon as possible. Then loved ones gather around, cry, and are reminded that only family and community and God matter, and then everyone shovels a little dirt on the coffin. It’s humble. Honest. Connected to the now and to the beyond. And it makes me angry he was denied this because of the virus.

“Funerals are for the living,” he said to me as we walked back to the car. It was a gray day but his eyes still twinkled.

On the ride home I told Emilyn what her dad had told me about funerals being for the living. She confirmed that was one of his many sayings. She then told a joke that was one of his other go-to’s. She imitated the Yiddish accent he would put on when asking old friends “nu?” Here it goes:

A man in a small shtetl in Russia died. During his funeral, the rabbi made a speech, as was the custom.

Then he said: “Does anyone have something nice to say about our dearly departed friend, Yitzhak?”

The congregation was silent.

The rabbi repeated himself: “Surely, someone must have something nice to say about Yitzhak.”

Again, no one said a thing. Frustrated, the rabbi raised his voice: “Won’t someone say something nice about Yitzhak?”

After a moment, a little old woman sitting far in the back spoke up: “His brother was worse?”

• These essays are dedicated to the memory of Richard Brodsky. In his memory, please consider making a donation to the Richard L. Brodsky Scholarship for Public Service.