“Did something happen?”
“The hate fuck.” I exhaled breath of frustration. “It didn’t work.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite,” I replied. “Why?”
“It takes time.”
“Well,” I said with a laugh. “It looks like time is on my side.”
She chuckled. “I’ll be in touch. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“Thank you.”
“Be safe.”
“Same to you,” I said. “Again, thanks.”
I hung up the call and pushed the phone to the center of the table. I glanced at the television. The news segment continued, warning viewers of spreading the virus from one person to another.
To slow the rate of infection, the Center of Disease Control is urging people to practice what is described as social distancing. Maintaining a six-foot distance between other people, while in public, is crucial to slow the spread of COVID-19.
Residents of the state should wear protective masks or respirators, if possible, when outdoors. Publicly accessed grocery carts, fuel pumps, and other hard surfaces should be handled with gloves or sanitized before touching with bare hands. Proper hand washing is critical, as is sanitizing one’s hands after touching anything in public.
If a resident is having groceries delivered by one of the many companies who offer such services, they should be cleaned and disinfected prior to…
I lowered my head into my hands. What was happening was incomprehensible.
For the next several hours I wandered throughout the home, taking inventory of what I had. Short of wine, there wasn’t enough groceries in the home to feed a mouse.
There was no hand sanitizer, Lysol, or any other bacteria-killing cleanser. Although there was a reasonable supply of toilet paper, I’d need more if the order to stay at home was extended beyond a month.
I downloaded the Instacart application on my phone. After placing a quick order for what I felt was essential, I tried to embrace the idea of being locked in a home that I didn’t want to be in, which, consequently, was next door to a man who I’d quickly grown to despise.
For an entire month.
It dawned on me that he, too, would be locked in his home. There was one upside, though.
We’d be in separate homes.
Braxton
I couldn’t fucking believe it. In addition to dodging thousands of bullets, I’d managed to live through the threat of sarin gas, anthrax, and the countless chemical weapons that we exposed ourselves to throughout my tenure as a US Marine. Having survived those real-life threats, I was now being forced to stay home and safeguard myself from a disease that had symptoms mimicking the seasonal flu.
The governor of California was an utter and complete idiot.
Although my research on the matter was far from thorough, the information was readily available, and the consensus was obvious. It was apparent that the deaths associated with the common flu were far in excess of the deaths associated with COVID-19.
Men over the age of eighty with underlying health issues were those who should be concerned. A middle-aged male in perfect health wasn’t a candidate for complications. Frustrated beyond comprehension, I picked up my phone and called Pratt.
He answered on the first ring. “Pratt’s soon-to-be sanitary supply warehouse, how can I help you?”
“Sanitary supplies,” I said with a laugh. “I’m guessing you saw governor’s press conference?”
“Hate to say I told you so,” he sang in a sarcastic tone. “But I told you so.”
“Fuck you, Pratt.”
“Mark my words,” he said. “This shit’s going to sweep across the nation like a plague. The Chinese were lying about their death count, who’s at risk, and the long-term complications associated with it. Now our government knows the truth about China’s lies, and they’re running scared because the only statistics they have available aren’t worth a shit. They’re saying, ‘Stay at home, everything will be fine in 30 days.’ It won’t be fine in 30 days. I doubt it’ll be fine ever again. This one’s going to be a game changer, Brother.”
Pratt was a conspiracy theorist. I was a realist. While he clung to theories, possibilities, and the most far-fetched of notions, I embraced nothing but facts and statistics.
I glanced at the open website on my laptop. “80,000 people were infected in China and there were 3,000 deaths, total. Keep in mind they have a population of 1.4 billion and that they all live on fucking top of one another like canned sardines.” I grabbed my phone and did some quick math. “That’s roughly fifty people infected per million. At that rate, the United States will see about…” I pressed the keys on my phone’s calculator. “Applying China’s math, the USA will see 16,400 infected, and 660 deaths. Hell, 30,000 people died last year from the flu. This is a political ploy if I’ve ever seen one. They didn’t get him impeached, so they’re going to do whatever they must to get him out of office.”
“Brother, we’ll see 660 deaths a day once this gets going,” Pratt warned. “This isn’t about politics.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“I’ll be a healthy idiot,” he said with a laugh. “I’m going to get a 100,000-volt cattle prod and carry it with me when I go get groceries. If anyone gets within six feet of me, I’ll shove the end of it against their neck and shock them so hard they’ll piss down their leg. Anti-social distancing is what I’m going to practice.”
Knowing Pratt, he was serious. It was just like him to do something drastic while trying to protect his odd system beliefs.
“If you shock someone with a stock prod, you’ll end up getting arrested,” I said.
“I might be arrested, but I’ll be alive and uninfected.”
“You think you’ll be able to maintain a safe distance in the county jail?” I asked. “Do you think they’re practicing social distancing in there?”
“Hadn’t given that much thought.”
In my opinion, no one had given any of it much thought. That was the problem. No thinking, and too much knee-jerk reacting.
“What the fuck are you going to do?” I asked. “Big picture? Cower in fear?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m being serious.”
“Stay home, practice good hygiene, and maintain a safe distance from anyone I have to encounter. It’s only fair to everyone else.”
“What the fuck does that mean? Fair to everyone else?”
“I could be a carrier. Hell, one man can get this shit and not know it, and the next gets it and dies. If I’m out running around, I could be carrying it from place to place, infecting hundreds. Maybe thousands. It’s my responsibility to be responsible.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
“I might be wrong,” he said in a sarcastic tone. “But I don’t think being a low-level thug qualifies as an essential business. Why don’t you call the governor’s office and ask ‘em what they think? Tell ‘em we kidnap people, stage murders, and manipulate evidence for whoever pays us the most. See what they say. Hell, who knows? Maybe we are essential. I’ll warn ya, though. If you get within six feet of me, I’m shocking your big dumb ass.”
“He can’t force businesses to close,” I argued. “That’s on the cusp of communism.”
“Call it what you want,” he said. “But it’s already done. He signed an executive order under a state of emergency. Groups of more than ten people, anywhere, aren’t allowed. Restaurants are closed, bars are closed, hell, after tonight you won’t even be able to go to Best Buy and get a big screen TV. If it’s not food or drugs they’re closing at midnight tonight. Oh, and they cancelled the entire NBA season. Baseball, too.”
“This is fucking ridiculous,” I snarled.
“If you don’t pay attention to this, you’ll be saying that from your grave.”
“I’m healthy,” I argued. “I don’t have anything to worry about.”
“Kid in Washington died, and he was 32
. Left a wife and two little kids wondering what the hell they did wrong.”
“He probably had lungs that were burned out from smoking meth. Either that, or he died from something totally unrelated, and they claimed it was this shit, just to put the scare in us.”
“Man can’t win an argument with you, Rourke,” he complained. “That’s for sure.”
“There’s nothing to argue about,” I said. “Like I said. Statistics. That’s all I’m interested in talking about.”
“Put this down in your statistics. I’m going to get toilet paper before everyone runs out.”
“Why the fuck would we run out of toilet paper?” I pulled the phone away from my ear and glared at it. “Is diarrhea a symptom?”
“You don’t get it, Brother. I’m going for crapper paper. Call me in a couple of hours,” he said. “We need to brainstorm on how to make money during this deal. What the next big moneymaker’s going to be. I’m thinking sewing machines.”
“Well,” I said with a laugh. “It sure as fuck isn’t going to be toilet paper.”
Anna
It had been nine days since the stay at home order was given. During that time, things changed.
In fact, everything changed.
Nationally, there was no available supply of toilet paper, paper towels, Clorox wipes, rubbing alcohol, and hand sanitizer. Stores had more bare shelves than stocked ones. Essentials like bread, milk, meat and cheese were often unavailable. A few of the independent grain alcohol distributors had shut down manufacturing of their craft vodka and were now bottling hand sanitizer.
The World Health Organization declared a pandemic. The president blamed the media, the media blamed the president, and the American people blamed each other.
Fights broke out at gas stations, stores, and in food lines over people not practicing social distancing measures. Videos were posted to social media showing women in fist fights over toilet paper. An elderly woman was kicked to death in New York City for sneezing on someone. A Chinese man was beaten for being Chinese.
The entire nation was up in arms, and over half the states were shut down from any activities, short of what was deemed essential by their respective governor. The stock market had set a new record for a one-day loss, unemployment was at an all-time high, and the ICU’s in New York City’s hospitals were nearly filled, all from COVID-19 related admissions.
Hospitals in many of the highly infected states feared they’d run out of the ventilators required to keep the critically ill patients alive. Some hospitals had already spent their supply of Personnel Protective Equipment and were now forced to fabricate their own masks or reuse the ones they had.
Those dying from COVID-19 weren’t able to be seen by the living family members because of the contagious nature of the disease. In fact, family members were prohibited from so much as visiting a hospital, let alone seeing the dying patients.
Most were saying goodbye to their loved ones via video conference calls like Skype, Zoom, and Facebook Messenger. My nights were spent watching CNN in a drunken stupor, crying at the COVID-19 death stories as they were unveiled.
Initially, those who were listed as vulnerable were eighty years old with compromised health. It soon changed to include anyone over sixty with compromised health. Two days later, it was anyone fifty or older, regardless of their condition.
Now, it was anyone. Period.
Women. Children. Men. Young. Old. Healthy. We were all at risk.
It seemed every day something changed. The symptoms. The prognosis. The statistics. The vulnerable.
One thing that remained unchanged was Braxton. He continued to come and go at will, driving past my home no less than 3 or 4 times a day.
I had no idea where he was going, but I doubted what he was doing was essential.
It frustrated me that he was zooming up and down the street while I was stuck at home watching the news as if my life depended on it. As frustrating as the information was, it seemed I couldn’t stop watching CNN.
From when I got up to when I went to bed, the news played. If I wasn’t watching it, I was on my laptop, checking the daily statistics of each state, the nation, and the other countries who had a high rate of infection.
The statistics and the stories seemed to be my life blood.
But it wasn’t healthy. I was drinking more than I ever had, eating an unhealthy amount of food, and wasn’t active at all.
At whatever point in time they lifted the stay at home order, I’d have a pickled liver, be grossly overweight, and physically out of shape. One way or another, I was destined to die. If COVID-19 didn’t get me, my failing liver would.
I thought about dying more often than I ever had. Although I was able to accept the death of my parents, I couldn’t find a way to accept my own. Maybe it was because I was young, and I felt that I hadn’t lived a full life. At least not yet.
I sipped my morning mimosa while watching the news. A 36-year-old DJ in Florida contracted the virus and died soon thereafter. He was in good health, had no underlying conditions, and wasn’t considered a person at tremendous risk.
The DJ’s wife and young daughter were being interviewed. Although I was already one glass beyond my self-imposed mimosa limit for the morning, I opened my third bottle of champagne, and poured another. The wife explained how her husband couldn’t get tested because he didn’t fit the criteria. How he became ill, had difficulties breathing, and still couldn’t get tested.
Withing a few days he became so ill that he wasn’t able to stand or walk. She drove him to the emergency room. The hospital then tested him, found that he was infected, and immediately admitted him.
With the hospital on lockdown, his wife was not allowed to come inside.
Two days later, he was dead.
She never got to say, “I love you” or “goodbye.”
The daughter told stories about her father dancing in a ballet competition with her. In closing the segment, the newscaster explained that the deceased had worked a week prior to his illness as a DJ at a local bar. The venue was filled with college youth on spring break. Although no one knew for certain, it was expected the he contracted the virus then.
My eyes welled with tears. It was more than I could take.
Witnessing the family express how the events unfolded gave confirmation to the severity of the disease, the necessity of the stay at home order, and the importance of social distancing and proper hygiene.
While I wallowed in sorrow, the familiar drone of Braxton’s SUV caused me to look up. Pissed off about the dead DJ, disappointed with Braxton in general, and filled with mimosa-induced courage, I rushed to the window just in time to see him get out of the vehicle.
He was wearing a pair of dark washed blue jeans, a black tee-shirt that clung to him like a coat of paint, and leather dress shoes. It was the only time I’d seen him wearing something other than a suit, and it was the first time I’d caught a glimpse of his tattooed biceps.
In a tattoo fueled swoon, I sank into the sofa, nearly spilling my mimosa in the process. Following a quick recovery, I took a drink of the sweet nectar and stole another glance at my promiscuous neighbor.
Without thinking, I rapped my knuckles against the glass.
In the midst of unlocking the front door, he glanced over his shoulder.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I flipped him the bird.
He shook his head as if disgusted with my antics and walked inside.
We hadn’t spoken since the hate fuck debacle. I’d never been so embarrassed—or pissed off—in my life. I wondered what Braxton thought about the incident, and why he hadn’t taken time to apologize, check on me, or at least say something—even if it wasn’t related to the underdressed twenty-two-year-old’s home invasion.
I finished my mimosa and crawled off the couch.
The news flashed to the head of the CDC, who was supposed to give an update on the rapidly growing rate of infection.
Normally they gave updates in t
he late afternoon.
I glanced at my watch. It was four o’clock. Shocked at how the day had managed to escape me, I glanced around the living room.
Magazines that I’d had delivered with my grocery orders—most of which couldn’t keep my interest for longer than ten minutes—were scattered about the floor like steppingstones. A weeks’ worth of dirty champagne and wine glasses covered every inch of available table space. A dirty pair of sweats was draped over the back of an oversized chair.
The living room looked like an underaged house party ten minutes after the cops showed up.
I lifted my arm and sniffed my arm pit.
I smelled like a wet goat.
My life had come unraveled at the seams. In the foreseeable future, I doubted things would get much better. Frustrated with the situation—and with myself—I finished my drink, picked up the living room, and took a shower.
Upon returning to the living room, I peered through the window, toward the salmon-colored Mediterranean home across the street.
Short of the two additional cars parked in front of the home, everything looked the same.
I opened the front door and poked my head outside. An eerie silence enveloped me. The noise from the freeway was absent. In fact, the typical noise from traffic—in general—was non-existent.
The only sound was that of me, breathing. I peered to the left.
Nothing.
I peered to the right. Two doors down from the Mediterranean home, an elderly woman was pruning one of her bushes. The ground around her was peppered with the trimmings from her afternoon’s work.
She was tall for a woman and had a petite build. Her curly hair was cut short. The frosty white color gave hint from afar that she was high on the list of people who were “at risk.” Realizing that fact made me sad.
Wearing a pair of bright red pants and a lemon-colored short sleeved top, she looked like she was dressed for a night out with her husband.
I waved, but she was preoccupied with her work.
I wondered if she was single or married. Why wasn’t her husband outside with her? Had he contracted the virus? Was he sick? Had he died? Did she get to say she loved him before he drew his last breath?
The Man I Hate Page 9