Lockdown

by Nick Kolakowski

  The bag of fertilizer I put in my backpack. I lifted the plant in its pot. I’d resigned myself to leaving the tray with the gravel, since it was too cumbersome to carry, but I knew I could arrange something at home that would serve as a moist bedding.

  On my way out, at the door to the hall, I looked back at everything. Several people in my unit had plants, and I wondered if anybody else would feel guilty for leaving theirs behind. Would anyone make a trip over for a rescue, flouting our agency’s orders and risking infection? I suspected not, but then again, who among my group felt as strongly about their plants as I did about my Guiana Chestnut?

  I had to put it down on the elevator floor to push the lobby button, and when I arrived at ground level, I picked it up with two hands. The subway, as I considered it, might be difficult; it’d be easier to grab a taxi.

  “Sir?”

  “Take care,” I said.

  The guy at his station, in his security guard jacket, held up his hand. The woman back there beside him, dressed in the same brown pants and jacket, the identical transparent gloves, asked me to put the plant on the counter. I saw these people every weekday and sometimes said good morning to them, but each had a hostile and remote appearance as they eyed me over their surgical masks.

  “Should I sign out?”

  “Yes,” the guy said, his voice not unfriendly. “And do you have a slip for the plant?”

  “A slip.”

  “You took that from your office, didn’t you?”

  “I did. I’m bringing it home.”

  “You need the slip to take anything from your office.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The authorization form,” the guard said. “You should know that.”

  Here’s where I paused, observing them both. Could this guy be serious, or was this his version of city security guard humor? Bureaucracy in the time of the virus: a farce.

  “I own this plant,” I said. “I brought it from home and now I’m taking it back. If I don’t, it will die.”

  “It’s coming from your office,” the guy’s partner said. “You need your superior to sign the form.”

  “I’m an authorized signer. You’re gonna make me go up and get the form?”

  “You can’t sign yourself out.”

  “My AC is at home. Like everyone else.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “I could understand with supplies,” I said. “Maybe. But a plant?”

  “We can’t let you out.”

  And what would they do, from behind their island’s black marble top? Neither had a weapon that I could see, and even if they did have one tucked away in there, would they pull it out and shoot at me if I bolted for the lobby exit?

  “To me, this plant’s important. My wife bought it for me years ago, and since she’s been gone, what can I say, I feel I need to have it close to me.”

  “Sir, can you bring it back upstairs, please?”

  “Did you hear what I said? My wife got this for me, and if I leave it here during the lockdown…”

  That’s when the idea came, brilliant in its simplicity.

  I reached into my coat and plucked out my mask as if about to put it on, but before I lowered it over my head, I reared back as if losing control. The cough I unleashed had droplets in it, drawn from my mouth and throat, and I’d stepped forward when in the act to close the gap between me and the guards.

  “I need to go,” I said. “Not feeling well. I wouldn’t have come out at all if not for my plant.”

  They were yelling as I departed, swearing at me as they wiped at their faces, and I was still laughing pretty hard when the cab I hailed from the curb pulled over so I could get in.

  Octavia laughed as well when I got home. Or she would have, had she been capable of it. I knew that if I knew anything. She lay on the living room couch in her dressing gown, hands folded across her chest, long black hair parted in the middle, and I could tell she was pleased with me.

  “I told you I’d keep this healthy,” I said. “Authorization form my ass.”

  Her weak heart had claimed her—nothing to do with the pandemic—and at some point, I’d have to call someone to take her away.

  The smell was starting.

  But once I gave in and let her go, I would have the plant, living and fragrant.

  It would be my company for the quarantine.

  By Angel Luis Colón

  The first thing you did was make a list.

  All the things you already did—keep the routine.

  All the things you wanted to do—may as well, there was time.

  All the things you’d never do—a reminder that you had limits. That you would not let this make you into something that was less of you.

  Life in quarantine wouldn’t be easy, but you convinced yourself that you could find structure, and through that structure, you’d navigate a path over to the brighter side. It wasn’t denial or a delusion that life would be easy; it was simply a way to digest the truths and work past the stress so you could survive—and maybe emerge with six-pack abs as a bonus.

  And it was easy? The first two weeks were unnerving in their long silences between conference calls, but otherwise things were uneventful. You watched the world from out your window on the 10th floor of your building. Scoffed at joggers and teenagers grouping together on bikes. You made a point to recognize the people who always went without masks and wondered if you could memorize the eyes of those who did. You reminded yourself this feeling of ease wasn’t meant to last forever. Two weeks was a drop in the glass. What if this went on for two months? Two years?

  It wasn’t pessimism; it was realism.

  You bought a lot of “things.” Snacks. Grocery items you never even glanced at when you could go to the supermarket. You disinfected everything the courier brought to your door—even the off-brand disinfectant wipes. You bought a treadmill. It worked great until it became a clothes hanger. You started to bake. Your sourdough starter matured the way the guy in the YouTube video said it would. You made three whole loaves of bread and ate them all within a week. Pajamas were now formal wear.

  The wail of ambulance sirens, you grew used to them. You knew things would calm down. They said so. They said the curve would flatten, that staying inside and keeping away from the most at-risk would be beneficial in the long term. You clung to that belief because what else was there to believe in? And the news proved those words true. They told you the death tolls were going down. They said that tests were being made available.

  Then why did it feel like the sirens were becoming a constant sound throughout the city? Why were your neighbors being carted away on stretchers, their hands scratching at their necks as they rasped indecipherable goodbyes to their loved ones or gurgled desperate pleas to remember their confused pets?

  You reminded yourself to hydrate. You worked out twice a day—the abs were showing, a miracle. You traded the bread for other, healthier treats and trimmed down your grocery list. You discovered the joy of a bidet toilet seat and decided it was impossible to go back to the two-ply trash you’d been indoctrinated to believe kept your ass clean. Your work calls were easier. Your productivity was through the roof and your superiors made promises that none of this would affect their employment numbers. You were safe in the bubble and even though your doorman mentioned an entire floor below you was sick, it didn’t worry you. You were doing everything right.

  You were safe.

  You were not safe.

  Another neighbor, this time down the hall, taken in the middle of the night. Their cough like mourning in catacombs—deep, guttural—echoed well after they were gone. The sirens were ever-present. They drowned out every noise. They drowned out the clapping at night—support for those who buried more than they saved. The news remained the same. Hollow optimism. Racist dog whistles. Fingers pointing blame at foreigners or others who defied the norm. You watched looters from your window. They all looked like you. All in great shape. They took pet food
and toilet paper and televisions out of the closed stores down the avenue. They reveled and hollered.

  None of those looters looked like the ones on TV.

  You checked your list. Your routine was airtight. The list of things that interested you, all crossed out. You were a master baker and able to do jumping push-ups without effort. The quarantine was the best thing that ever happened to you.

  You ignored your desperation list. The list that contained looting. The list that mentioned suicide. All the things you knew would happen if things went too far. But it was OK. Things were not going too far. There was a light at the end of the tunnel.

  Lies.

  You were not safe. You would never be safe.

  You knew that as soon as you heard that coughing again. This time it was through your thin walls in the bedroom. The coughs boomed. Like thunder. Like a hammer pounding against the foundations of the building. You did your best to ignore them, but maybe it was a good idea to take precautions. You sealed your bedroom windows with plastic and tape—just in case. You investigated the seams in the floor and crown molding in the room. You sealed any gaps you found with extra caulking by hand because you never invested in the stupid gun. You checked every inch of your walls for holes or other entryways for air from the other apartment.

  The actions felt safe, but you didn’t feel safe when you were done. You were restless. Legs constantly moving whenever you sat still. Your heartbeat audible. Was that shortness of breath? Why did you feel a tightness? How could that be possible? Was there a place you forgot to seal up in the walls and doorframes?

  You didn’t feel safe when that same coughing erupted near your front door. You repeated the plastic and tape routine again. This time for your door and your living room windows. Set it up so you could open the door when it was absolutely necessary and reseal quickly. You checked the entire apartment. Used your window fans to make sure you weren’t suffocating yourself to death. You checked your vents—were these safe? Were you better off sealing them? It was getting warmer. Wasn’t like you needed heat, and air conditioning wasn’t necessary either. You were home. If you got hot, you could take a nice shower or use a cold compress to cool off.

  You made a note to remember to check the carbon monoxide/smoke alarm batteries every few weeks.

  Your boss asked you if everything was OK. Your hair was getting shaggy. You looked pale. You were wearing heavy metal t-shirts during important video calls. You let that sourdough starter starve. You were ordering so many more snack cakes and chips than you ever did before. That damn treadmill couldn’t hold more pants and you wouldn’t dare to take the trip downstairs to the laundry room, no, not after you heard the doorman sniffling the last time you called downstairs to check on a delivery. No, no, no. You decided the tub was a great place to wash your clothes anyway.

  The coughing started again. You looked through your peephole whenever you heard it. Then you checked whenever you heard footsteps or the sound of someone using the trash compactor. You had to know who it was—who was infected. You waited for the EMTs to arrive any day. Another body for the meat wagon. Another siren joining the chorus out in the streets.

  You started making facemasks with some of your older clothes—especially the older work clothes. You couldn’t imagine going back to the office anymore. Your co-workers seemed to share the sentiment. They were looking like you—even your boss. Everyone asked each other if they were OK and everyone said they were. You figured that was great. They were all being safe. Safe, just like you were.

  You didn’t feel safe.

  The coughing was growing louder. This time two coughs. Both deep and bellowing. Both from the same apartment. You stared at your walls when the fits started, willing them to stop. Willing the virus to go away. The thought of it didn’t scare you as much as it disgusted you. You wondered what it was these idiots did to get sick. Why did they lack the common sense to self-isolate? How did they have the unmitigated gall to place the building and its residents at risk? You found yourself ready to scream, ready to stomp your feet and point at that damn wall to tell these people a thing or two about hygiene, good health, and being a considerate neighbor.

  You kept checking through your peephole and imagined what they looked like. Were they Chinese? No, that was terrible and racist to assume. You stopped yourself then. You voted Democrat. You weren’t like that. You were just concerned about your health and your neighbor’s health. You remembered seeing the stretchers and the sirens. This wasn’t about hate; you were simply concerned—deeply concerned.

  It felt like weeks, but you finally caught sight of one of your neighbors on a Saturday night. Young man. Dressed very well. He was drunk. He coughed into the crook of his elbow while he was talking on his phone.

  “Nah, man. They setting up speakeasies now. My boy told me about one in the Bronx. Been hitting that up.”

  Speakeasies? You didn’t understand. Why would anyone want to go out and risk infection? Why would this idiot put the whole building in that kind of danger? The rage you felt nearly sent you out the door, but you stopped yourself. You didn’t have any clean masks and your gloves were on back order. It wasn’t worth the risk. Not worth getting sick over this idiot’s incredibly irresponsible behavior. Instead, you stomped into your bedroom and found your notebook. You grabbed your list and made a new one.

  Things to do to my neighbor if he gets me sick, you wrote.

  You wrote about breaking down the wall like a blood-starving Kool-Aid Man. You wrote about crafting a makeshift flamethrower with a bottle of Lysol and a barbecue lighter. You wrote about drowning them in a shallow pool of whatever hand sanitizer you could spare. You wrote about stapling masks to their faces; if they didn’t want the responsibility, then you would make them accept it.

  It was cathartic and relaxing. You felt safe for the first time in weeks. Felt like there was a level of control in your sphere for the first time in mental decades even if you stayed home all day, worked, watched the news, and continued ordering kitchen utensils you’d never use—a garlic press, really?

  They coughed. You added to your list.

  They came in late at night. You added to your list.

  You wondered if this was healthy, but after a week it didn’t matter. This was as normal as working from home and as never going outside or knowing what it was like to feel obligated to bathe. Your new normal felt like home and it was worth it.

  Then they went and knocked on your door.

  “I’m sorry,” they said with a smile, “I know we’re supposed to be social distancing and all, but I can’t believe I’m about to ask if you had any extra paper towels?”

  You examined them from six feet away. Their skin looked clammy. They were disheveled. Smelled like sickness the way a private practice does during flu season. That light stench of sweat and Vicks VapoRub.

  They watched you. Leaned forward with an arch of their brows. “I’m sorry if this is a bad time.”

  “It’s fine,” you said, surprised at the sound of your own voice. When was the last time you spoke to someone who wasn’t on a computer screen? You felt like you should be wearing a headset. “I think I can spare some. Are you sure one is enough?”

  They looked confused. “Yeah, I got some coming. Why do you ask that?”

  “I figured for your wife or roommate or whatever,” you answered. There was more than one cough. You heard two people coughing. You weren’t crazy—yet. You ducked into the kitchen and got the paper towel roll. Pinched it at the hole and held it out like someone trying to catch a saving hand as they fell off a cliff.

  “Oh, uh, thanks.” They took the roll. “Just me in there, though. Maybe a friend came over, I don’t know.”

  Another wave of rage sent you reeling. ‘I don’t know’? How did they not know? How could they possibly be so dim? This was a pandemic—a historical and unprecedented event. The death toll was not subsiding and this chucklefuck was living free. They didn’t give a damn about anything but themselves and if
you had a knife right there you would have carved the message loud and clear across their throat in bold red letters: SELF-ISOLATE.

  You didn’t have a knife. No. Not a knife. Would have taken too long, and while you never really thought about it, you were pretty sure the sight of blood would give you a surreal level of anxiety. What you did have was the dread. The panic following. The feeling of tightness in your chest that crawled its way up into your throat like a fat tarantula. Your hands brushed along your neck. You felt as if you could squeeze it out of you, burst it like a pimple.

  “You good, man?” Their voice was the finger on a trigger.

  Maybe it was the anger. The pent-up emotion that isolation stacked haphazardly within you without supports or scaffolding—a tower of logs swaying sky-high in a gentle breeze—and all it took was their hot breath to send it all crashing down. Maybe it was loneliness. Maybe it was the desire to finally feel something warm in your hands. It didn’t matter in the moment, not as much as it did in the aftermath, but you strangled him. You strangled him as hard as you could.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  That treadmill. The workouts. All those things on your list that you followed like scripture for the first couple of weeks. The efforts you ignored because your spirit became a black hole to motivation; it would have been in your best interest to continue those list items. Instead, your rage gave you the ability to severely overestimate your strength and underestimate your neighbor’s ability to send you tumbling backwards into your dinette. The sound of glasses crashing to the floor—all half-full—accompanied his ragged breathing as he mounted you and vented his own frustrations on your face and solar plexus.

  You scratched at air. His breathing wormed through your ears. You remembered all the warnings. The social distancing. The incubation period of the virus. The virus’ sustainability in airborne droplets of saliva. Once you noticed your neighbor’s fists were red, you wondered if the disease was transmittable through blood.