This Will All Be Over Soon

by Cecily Strong

  I was thinking about things I miss in that vein the other day. I miss the possibilities for small adventures. (I am rife with anxiety so will never be a “big adventure” person.) Or at least it feels like my window for small adventures has narrowed tremendously. I am going to use the following word incorrectly and it’s probably culturally insensitive, and I’m very sorry if so, but I also know I am using it incorrectly and think of it as a separate idea in my head but certainly lightly connected to what I lightly know about the origins, and I don’t have another word yet and it’s a great word and it’s in fact my favorite way to describe what I mean here: I love a walkabout. (Remember the Chili Peppers song “I think I’ll go on a walkabout / Find out what it’s all about”?) I like the idea of setting out with no map and no plans and no schedule. Following what seems like where you want to go. I like the idea of just starting a night out walking and seeing where you end up.

  This led to my somehow becoming an almost regular at an open mic near my apartment a few years back. Not as a performer. As an audience member. I’ve seen friends ride mechanical bulls. Been to a secret after-hours flamenco bar run by “La Doña,” who had to approve of you before you were invited back. I like being with my bizarre friends in California and having a wig drawer and inviting them over and just seeing what happens. Maybe you end up performing your own new Peter Pan musical with improvised music and lyrics and choreography. Or maybe it could lead to going out to a Christmas party you aren’t sure about because you aren’t feeling so hot and meeting a nice man with a mustache.

  I like conversations to feel this way. I like surprises. I like being surprised by others. I like surprising myself. I love waking up in the morning and saying, “That was the craziest night ever,” while I’m still laughing. I love when you wind up just dancing for hours, so sweaty but unable to stop. I love when you wind up meeting someone new and you talk and maybe cry with them for hours. I love all of the possibilities. A phone conversation isn’t bad, it just feels less alive. Maybe I’ll just have to find the ways I can do it in this new normal.

  But also I don’t know where I am yet. I don’t want to resent friends who seem too “happy” or feel like I’m supposed to be in a certain place. So I’m just avoiding till I feel a bit better. It was only two weeks ago, to the day, that my phone was on airplane mode and I lay in bed drinking, wishing to find a way to stay sleeping for longer because being awake meant feeling so so low. That’s not really the person I want to share.

  I don’t know. I’m sure my thoughts on all of this will change. Because they’ll have to. Because I miss people. But I also know the disappointment of a desperate quick fix can hurt, and I’m trying to avoid those things.

  While I say all of this about missing people, though, I’m burying the lede, which is this warm text relationship I’m developing with my Airbnb host, Megan, whose name I might have to change later if I ever share this journal or book or whatever it is with anybody, because of her safety. The town has become increasingly hostile about people from the city coming up to the Hudson Valley and spreading the virus. Or buying all their toilet paper and all that bullshit. I’ve tried to be very respectful and careful about all of this coming in. It’s felt very hurtful. It’s made me preemptively defensive. Anyway, I don’t want to spend energy there. So I won’t.

  Megan has been a shining light. Every day she offers up some new comfort. She offers to extend my stay again if we need. She’s sorry about what’s happening in New York. She lets me know if we get bored, she has more board games at her other home. She tells me she’ll drop off a third bicycle next week. She will ask her partner where the pump is so we can all go riding. And they’ll load up and clean the kayaks for us anytime, and we can follow them to the river, where they will leave them for us, since they have the rig. She sends me a picture of the river in spring. It is actually gorgeous. I don’t know how to kayak. But then I think, I guess there’s no better time to learn a solo sport than when you’ve got nothing but time and you must be solo. She says not to worry, there are life jackets. I thank her every day. She thanks me. She opened a restaurant this year and now they can only deliver and do curbside pickup and they have to close at eight. We are helping each other, Megan and I. I like her and I decide to open up and let her know her beautiful home has also provided me an opportunity to finally process a lot of grief I hadn’t yet about losing my young cousin in January. She texts back saying she lost a family member to brain cancer.

  I have found in the last two months that I know a lot of people who have lost someone to brain cancer.

  This morning I wake up to a picture of the board games. Just let me know if any of these interest you and we can drop them off this weekend.

  So I guess I have made a surprise friend and am having a sort of little adventure after all.

  Oh, and I waved to the UPS man from the window in the kitchen yesterday. He waved back.

  April 6, 2020

  I found out Matt shares his birthday with Owen. He bought a cake. We are ordering from the one other restaurant that delivers right now. It’s Mexican. I’m sure it’s not great. But it will be great no matter what, you know? We’ll have margaritas. We will dance. We’ll have a three-person-one-dog party.

  I’ve been playing music and I say, “I want to play just one more song and I want it to be just the perfect song for us for right now.” I scroll through my Apple Music library on my phone. I don’t want something too sad or too happy or slow or fast. I take this job seriously. It takes me a long time.

  I find the song.

  Just a perfect day

  Drink sangria in the park

  I’m singing along while leaning on the kitchen island.

  I smile at them.

  “This is the right song, right?”

  So proud of myself.

  “What is this? It’s amazing.”

  “You don’t know ‘Perfect Day’?? By Lou Reed??”

  How do they not know this song?

  We listen to the whole thing. They love it. It’s the perfect song. I found the perfect song.

  Earlier in the day I felt bad. And then it’s as if from somewhere in the birdsong, Owen said, “Don’t feel bad, cuz. Look! You’re having a birthday party! In a quarantine!” Maybe it’s a coincidence. But that’s not really important or relevant. In a time of feeling like we don’t know anything anymore, I know I feel like I got a hug; I was reassured. By a person who was so good at reassuring.

  Thank you, Owen. Happy birthday.

  April 7, 2020

  Today is the first day I question whether I can do this.

  I was sitting in the sun. And I looked at my phone. We were laughing at the new nickname I’d come up with for Lucy. Lucia Maserati Donatella Versace. And then I looked on Facebook.

  Oh my God.

  Hal died.

  Of COVID.

  Hal Willner. Longtime music producer on SNL. My friend and the coolest of everyone I work with on the show.

  I stand frozen, looking out at the trees and the pond, and the boys walk quietly inside. I start to cry. I check to make sure this is real. I text my good friend Erin at the show.

  Hal died.

  I know. I just heard.

  And I’m stuck again. Stuck standing.

  I want to say goodbye in a panic because it feels like people don’t get goodbyes when thousands die at once and people are unique and strange and some of them are the most bizarre members of your workplace. They deserve a goodbye we are not numbers we are not numbers we are not numbers.

  He took a liking to me when I first started. I thought it strange but I liked it. I gladly accepted it.

  Then I remember. He and I just emailed. He was setting up a concert for Planned Parenthood over this hiatus—which was supposed to last two weeks in March, but now it’s a bit unclear when we will actually return and I don’t know what other word to use—and asked if I would like to perform or intro someone. I couldn’t because I was going to LA. Then I wrote back: “
I canceled my trip because I’m paranoid that I touch my face too often and it’s not worth the risk to fly so I can do the show.” He had to cancel the show anyway. The musicians didn’t want to fly in. He ends the email: “Withmuchlovetoyou, h.”

  We are losing people to corona that we’ve talked to about corona.

  I’m reminded immediately of a line Tom Davis wrote in one of my favorite essays, “The Dark Side of Death.” I look it up. Davis was one of the original SNL writers. He helped create memorable characters like Nick the Lounge Singer and the Coneheads. He wrote this essay after he was diagnosed with cancer. He wanted to go on his terms. He declined chemo and stayed in his house in the Hudson Valley.

  That makes me hold my breath.

  I find the line.

  “Ironically, I will probably outlive one or two people to whom I’ve already said goodbye.”

  Today I find it very hard to write because today I find it very hard not to be angry. I started getting angry last night. I’m angry at friends who don’t see that there are one hundred thousand more cases in New York and want to talk about themselves or class issues or anything else. Or who pretend “it’s sad everywhere.” I want to scream, “NO IT ISN’T! IT’S NOT LIKE THIS! HAL DIED BECAUSE WE ARE FIGHTING YOUR STATE FOR GOODS AND SUPPLIES AND YOU DIDN’T BELIEVE ME WHEN I SAID JACK WAS SICK AND YOU THINK A TEST IS A VACCINE BECAUSE YOU DON’T READ THE ARTICLES ALL DAY BECAUSE YOU DON’T NEED THE SCIENCE TO LIVE.”

  And the whole point is to not be mad, right? I don’t like that side of me. I want to shut off from people. I resent my loved ones. I feel like a dog snarling in a corner in a shelter, and you feel bad because you know that dog will never be adopted like that and if only she was adopted she would be given the love and care she needs, the lack of which is making her lash out in this shelter.

  But I think there will be more days like this to come, and maybe I’ll have to accept being mad, too. And I will remember I am here and I’m getting this chance to write and hopefully share Owen.

  Today it feels like I can’t do it. So maybe this is all I can write for today.

  Hal never quite felt “of this earth.” Now he is no longer on this earth. I hope you are floating in a magical outer space of music, Hal.

  Fuck COVID.

  April 8, 2020

  Do you know how pathetic it feels to be hurt by boy drama when the sky is falling?

  But here I am.

  I haven’t eaten in two days. It’s that diet when someone is starving you of their affection. I’m a corona meme now. A girl talking about boys and food.

  I’ve tried so hard to stay on top of this. To rise above of what I knew this would feel like. And to make it not real because it feels like some freak accident.

  I’m not allowed to text Jack because he told me the other day he wanted a break from me. This weekend he was planning to come up to visit me for a week. He told me he won’t be doing that now, it wasn’t a good idea. Everything was too much for him. I have no choice but to leave him alone, even though it hurts so much. I can’t be mad like I normally would, the mad that protects you from being too sad, because he just had a pretty big health scare. The rules are different.

  So instead I open up a new file in my notes in my phone. Here’s what I’ve written:

  The things I want to text: I miss you. I hope you aren’t gone. Time has moved so slowly but I’d give anything to go back to have a good night and hold your hand again. Right now I want to bite my fingers off because they serve as reminders.

  It’s hard not talking to you or getting geeky pictures. I can’t let myself look through geeky pictures. I hope you are thinking of me.

  Remember when we texted pictures of our doctors at Weill Cornell?

  I almost got to see you. I almost got to touch you.

  I’d give the world to come to that warehouse-looking building in Gowanus.

  I wonder if you wear your sweatshirt.

  I wonder if you kept your painting.

  I want to go to the Berkshires.

  You sound like Bob from Bob’s Burgers.

  I hope someday I get to show this list to you.

  What happened?

  Can’t it just be normal again?

  I miss my dear Jack so much.

  Do you know how much I like you?

  I’m so sorry I ever made you feel so bad you walked away.

  I wonder if it will keep me awake every night.

  I wonder if I’ll get to talk to you and how fucked up it will be if that doesn’t happen.

  What happened?

  I liked being on a team with you.

  I know I have jealousy issues and all that bullshit and I also know it sucks and I want to get rid of it and I think it takes a person like you. I wish you could see I see my shit as “gross” too, but it’s real. And I wish you could see I don’t want it. Maybe is there a world where we let ourselves be imperfect humans?

  I know I’m always questioning myself. I question you, but I really don’t want to. I want you to help me be normal. I want me to help you be whatever it is that you want that you think I have any power to help move along. And I want to live our lives and get to know all of you more along the way. And let you keep melting me.

  I want to know what I do that hurts you this much.

  I want to know when (if ever) I’m allowed to talk to you again that it will go better. It’s all I want.

  I want to know why you left.

  Or maybe not. Maybe it’s better I don’t. If it’s not helpful.

  But I want to know you’ll find a way back to the weird and wonderful first little pig’s home we made. And it was blown down. I’ll build it back up myself the minute you let me. I was following the advice of my beloved cousin’s doctor—and that’s why I thought it was okay also to check up on you and ask your doctor. I didn’t know it bothered you as much as it did. Can you believe that sad irony? I really thought maybe you were feeling supported knowing we were there for you. I thought your parents liked me then. I wanted to do what I could. I’m sorry I got it wrong. I’m sorry it felt oppressive. If I knew it would lead to losing you, I wouldn’t have ever ever ever said a thing.

  I know you can’t respond to this. I know I shouldn’t send it probably, but I lost a favorite person and friend and I’m trying to be respectful and figure this out. You don’t have to read or respond. Of course I’ll accept crumbs right now, but I’d rather the whole loaf of bread later on.

  I’m sorry while you were sick I was sick in a way that made it worse for you. It makes me feel terrible. And even with all the heavy talk, I miss just any talk. I miss flirting. I’m very smitten. I’m gonna work on the hardest thing ever which is patience and the blank spaces in relationships because you are very worth it in a very human way (you aren’t perfect).

  I’m sorry that I may send an email sometimes. It’s very hard to be in isolation and lose my favorite voice. But want to respect it. I hope you aren’t angry about this. But I suppose I understand if you are. I can’t control a thing!

  I made chilaquiles. I forgot to tell you I make those too.

  April 9, 2020

  I did the Instagram Live thing with Megan Rapinoe yesterday. It was supposed to be a talk about renewing and resetting and what is draining to me and how I work around that. We’d had a great conversation the day before on another new videoconference app I had to learn. I had sort of prepared what I would say. Sort of.

  Then an hour later I heard about Hal.

  I emailed them that night and let them know the situation, but I said I was still open to doing the Live because, like with this writing, I am trying to be honest and present and open so I can best deal with all of this and not bury my head in the sand, the depressed ostrich. And I know I am one of many grieving any number of things right now, and maybe it’s good to put a face to that too. Because I don’t know if people know they are allowed to grieve. I don’t know if people even know they are grieving. Or scared. Or anxious. And the re—inc group had been so k
ind to me. They reached out to me. Early on. Which was so touching because I felt so alone and that bit of kindness meant so much. Megan emailed me separately last night and promised to take care of me. I knew I would be safe.

  And selfishly I think I did it because I wanted the connection, too. I am a solitary person but had work and friends and travel before all this. I could stay in really well because I went out really well. But I can’t do that now and I’m lonely and I think this is how I can feel less alone. I don’t want to talk to a friend I may sort of resent or feel too different from right now. I don’t want a long conversation with my parents. I’m just not there. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I don’t want anything where I have to force a smile. I don’t want to bother with social niceties if I don’t have to. If it’s not waving to the UPS man or texting Megan, our Airbnb host. I prefer writing to the anonymous “you” reading these words. I prefer talking to Owen, who is somewhere in time and space and the birdsong. I want to be comforted by my favorite athletes in the world over email and Instagram Live. What a bizarre time.