by Bill Hayes
Nor can I imagine how painful it must be for families, spouses, children, who can’t even be at the bedside to hold a hand and say goodbye and kiss a forehead (visitors are not allowed in hospitals). And even more, how frightening it must be for those patients, quarantined in ICUs, on ventilators, dying with no loved ones around, no familiar faces. I just read about a young doctor who’d had to facilitate three “farewells” in one day from families via FaceTime for her dying patients. I suppose it is better than nothing, and we should be grateful that such technology even exists.
At the same time, I think about how gentle Oliver’s death was by comparison, how gentle a death can be. Oliver died at home in his own bed, as he had wished, with me and his longtime friend, Kate, on either side of him. A hospice nurse stood by to guide and advise us through the final stages. After he’d passed, we were able to stay with him until the undertakers arrived to take him to the funeral home. From what I am told, most victims of Covid-related deaths are denied those comforts and those rituals—as are their families—across nearly every part of the globe.
Making Peace with the Hudson
April 4, 2020
48
9:25 P.M. Three police officers patrolling on horseback ride up a silenced Eighth Avenue, unimpeded by cars, traffic, people; there’s something so comforting in the clop, clop, clop of the horses’ hooves through my open windows.
At the same time, I think of a funeral cortege.
49
It is four winters ago, and I am standing at a streetlight on Greenwich Avenue:
I hear a young couple right next to me talking about a large apartment building opposite, a prewar brownstone probably twenty-five stories high. They are gazing skyward, smiling and in awe: “Oh, look at those windows! And the ceilings!”
“Wouldn’t it be great to live there,” I say to them.
The light changes green.
“It would!” they say in unison as we set out.
“Let’s,” I add, “let’s live there.”
“Okay,” says the boy.
“Yeah, definitely,” says the girl.
“We’ll just get, like, thirty people, cool people like us to go in on it, and then we’ll be able to live there,” the boy adds, as if just clarifying the arrangements.
“I’m in,” I say. “You?”
“Definitely.”
“But only the best place in the building,” I add.
“The one with turrets,” she says.
We’ve come to the other corner. I point to myself: “Billy, I’m Billy.”
“Rachel,” says the girl.
“Adam,” says the boy. “We’ll be in touch, Billy, we’ll be in touch.”
We never get around to exchanging numbers. They go to the left; I keep going straight.
“Good night,” I call to them over my shoulder.
50
When you look out and see the empty streets and sidewalks and shuttered shops, a friend tells me, see it as solidarity—everyone doing their best to keep themselves and everyone else healthy.
I try to remember this, remind myself of this, repeat this to myself, as I walk around my neighborhood: solidarity, solidarity. Even so, I can’t deny how sad and disorienting the absence of life in these once-busy streets seems.
And then I meet a kind fellow: a pharmacist at a small independent shop on Fourteenth Street. He is providing two free disposable face masks to anyone, no questions asked or purchase required, whether you’re a customer or a homeless person. (There’s a big sign on his shop window.) I don’t have one myself—you can’t buy any at any franchise drugstores and our government sure isn’t handing them out; I’ve been using masks made from underwear or cloth napkins—so I knocked on the locked door. The pharmacist came at once to open it and, when I asked about masks, gave me two enclosed in a sealed sanitary bag. I was grateful to receive them and said so. I never did catch the pharmacist’s name, I’m afraid. I offered him a tip. He refused it.
A Pharmacist on Fourteenth Street
April 9, 2020
51
57 Days in the Pandemic in the United States of America:
Thurs. May 7: 1,292,623 confirmed cases & 76,928 dead*
Weds. May 6: 1,263,183 confirmed cases & 74,807 dead
Tues. May 5: 1,237,633 confirmed cases & 72,271 dead
Mon. May 4: 1,212,900 confirmed cases & 69,921 dead
Sun. May 3: 1,188,122 confirmed cases & 68,598 dead
Sat. May 2: 1,160,774 confirmed cases & 67,444 dead
Fri. May 1: 1,131,492 confirmed cases & 65,776 dead
Thurs. April 30: 1,095,304 confirmed cases & 63,871 dead
Weds. April 29: 1,064,533 confirmed cases & 61,668 dead
Tues. April 28: 1,035,765 confirmed cases & 59,266 dead
Mon. April 27: 1,008,043 confirmed cases & 56,649 dead
Sun. April 26: 987,322 confirmed cases & 55,415 dead
Sat. April 25: 960,896 confirmed cases & 54,265 dead
Fri. April 24: 925,038 confirmed cases & 52,185 dead
Thurs. April 23: 880,204 confirmed cases & 49,845 dead
Weds. April 22: 848,994 confirmed cases & 47,676 dead
Tues. April 21: 824,147 confirmed cases & 45,318 dead
Mon. April 20: 792,759 confirmed cases & 42,514 dead
Sun. April 19: 764,177 confirmed cases & 40,665 dead
Sat. April 18: 735,086 confirmed cases & 38,910 dead
Fri. April 17: 700,282 confirmed cases & 36,997 dead
Thurs. April 16: 671,425 confirmed cases & 33,286 dead
Wed. April 15: 638,111 confirmed cases & 30,844 dead
Tues. April 14: 609,240 confirmed cases & 26,033 dead
Mon. April 13: 581,918 confirmed cases & 23,608 dead
Sun. April 12: 556,044 confirmed cases & 22,073 dead
Sat. April 11: 527,111 confirmed cases & 20,506 dead
Fri. April 10: 501,560 confirmed cases & 18,777 dead
Thurs. April 9: 462,385 confirmed cases & 16,595 dead
Weds. April 8: 432,132 confirmed cases & 14,817 dead
Tues. April 7: 398,185 confirmed cases & 12,844 dead
Mon. April 6: 368,079 confirmed cases & 10,923 dead
Sun. April 5: 337,072 confirmed cases & 9,619 dead
Sat. April 4: 312,237 confirmed cases & 8,502 dead
Fri. April 3: 277,953 confirmed cases & 7,152 dead
Thurs. April 2: 245,070 confirmed cases & 5,949 dead
Weds. April 1: 215,417 confirmed cases & 5,116 dead
Tues. March 31: 188,172 confirmed cases & 3,873 dead
Mon. March 30: 160,020 confirmed cases & 2,953 dead
Sun. March 29: 140,886 confirmed cases & 2,467 dead
Sat. March 28: 122,666 confirmed cases & 2,147 dead
Fri. March 27: 103,942 confirmed cases & 1,689 dead
Thurs. March 26: 83,507 confirmed cases & 1,201 dead
Weds. March 25: 69,197 confirmed cases & 1,050 dead
Tues. March 24: 51,542 confirmed cases & 674 dead
Mon. March 23: 46,332 confirmed cases & 610 dead
Sun. March 22: 33,276 confirmed cases & 417 dead
Sat. March 21: 26,138 confirmed cases & 323 dead
Fri. March 20: 19,352 confirmed cases & 260 dead
Thurs. March 19: 13,680 confirmed cases & 200 dead
Weds. March 18: 8,017 confirmed cases & 143 dead
Tues. March 17: 6,362 confirmed cases & 108 dead
Mon. March 16: 4,427 confirmed cases & 86 dead
Sun. March 15: 3,486 confirmed cases & 66 dead
Sat. March 14: 2,695 confirmed cases & 58 dead
Fri. March 13: 2,100 confirmed cases & 48 dead
Thurs. March 12: 1,663 confirmed cases & 40 dead
* More than one third of these deaths were in New York
(Sources: Johns Hopkins Covid-19 Dashboard and www.worldometers.info/coronavirus/)
Doorman Near Thirty-fourth Street
April 14, 2020
52
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br /> One of the few positive things to come out of this crisis is that many of us are renewing friendships we’ve let go by the wayside (inadvertently usually), in part because we now have more time on our hands, but also because we are more aware than ever of how poignantly short life can be. Over the past five or six weeks, I’ve caught up by text, phone, Zoom, or FaceTime chats with many friends I hadn’t talked to or seen in years. That includes a few friends-with-benefits like my old buddy Mark. Mark and I began exchanging texts on Instagram one night in late March. It was flirty at first. We were both horny, sequestered solo, and exchanged a few shameless selfies. (I had no idea he had such an extensive wardrobe of sexy underwear.) We hadn’t been in touch or seen each other in at least a year, maybe a year and a half, even though he lives in the city, albeit six or seven miles north. Mark makes great music playlists and he sent a few along with his pictures—“Pandemic Playlists,” as he called them, with the old school R&B we both love.
When I didn’t hear back from him after a few days, I didn’t think about it. A couple nights ago, I checked in.
“How’s it going,” I texted casually.
“Unfortunately, the virus got me. Started feeling symptoms on Saturday, connected with my doctor on Monday, and have been in strict self-quarantine since then”
“My God how do u feel?”
“Tuesday and Wednesday were bad. I’ve had a fever of 102.3 consistently.… chills, body aches, headache, fatigue, loss of smell and taste, and then most recently, nausea/vomiting—”
“—Shit, everything—I am so sorry—”
“—and a sore throat too—lol”
A row of three red rose emojis was all I could come up with as a reply.
I felt terrible for him and asked if I could help in any way—order him some groceries, some dinner?
“Nah, haven’t been able to eat much between the throat and the vomiting so no need to waste $$$. Not even water will stay down, just comes up, I keep trying though.”
“Try ice chips maybe?” (I knew that dehydration can be serious, especially if you’re by yourself; delirium can set in.)
He said he’d try that and added that he didn’t have any chest pain or shortness of breath, which was a good sign, so he was not considered high risk.
“It’s all temporary, not worried, I just gotta see it through and do my part”
“Jesus, u have a good attitude,” I texted, “well I’m here if u need anything”
“Thank u, trust me I want my health restored”
“It will, u will”
When I checked back in with Mark a week later, he said he was feeling well, almost back to himself.
A Kiss at the Farmers Market
April 11, 2020
53
“I’ve got a present for you,” Jesse texts me out of the blue. “Okay if I drop it off? I’m not far.”
“Aww really? Yeah for sure”
I scrambled and found something small but perfect from my apartment as a gift in return. I left it for him at the front desk.
Jesse called as he was approaching the building. I could see him from a block away in his Carhartt jacket and cap. I opened my window and he stood on the sidewalk below, his mask pulled down, and we talked for a bit. Without traffic, the acoustics were perfect. It was nice to see his face, and that smile, even with eight stories between us. I wished I could tell him to come up. I’d give him a haircut. His hair was longer than I’d ever seen it.
“I know, I know,” he said, boyishly rubbing a hand through it.
It sure was a sweet moment in the midst of all this. I blew a kiss when I said goodbye. I closed the window, put on my gloves, and dashed down the stairs to pick up my present.
Older Man in the Shade—Chinatown
May 30, 2020
54
Two or three summers ago, I was on Fourteenth Street near Fifth Avenue when I spotted a striking young woman wearing a long, high-collared dress. She had close-set eyes and pulled-back hair. I think she was a Jehovah’s Witness.
“Instead of taking a picture of me, why don’t you accept Jesus in your heart?” she said after I’d asked permission to take her photo.
I put down my camera.
“Maybe I already have,” I replied with an easygoing smile, “maybe I already have accepted him in my heart.”
She looked like she did not know what to say back to that.
“Is Jesus love?” I asked her.
“Yes.”
“Well, there you are.”
55
Deaths in New York passed fifteen thousand yesterday, the same day I met Nellie, a grounds caretaker at the public housing complex in Chelsea, five or six blocks from my place. I’d gone out for a walk with my camera around three o’clock and saw her sitting in her truck in an empty lot, staring into space, lost in thought. I didn’t want to startle her.
“Hi, how’re you doing?” I asked in a quiet voice.
“Tired.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Fifteen days in a row,” she said.
“Working—fifteen days without a day off?”
She nodded.
“Are you gonna get one?”
“Tuesday—supposed to get Tuesday off.”
“Oh, man, thank you for doing what you’re doing, being out, working,” I said. “I’m sure this is hard—beyond what I can imagine.”
Nellie nodded, look down, started to get a little choked up.
“I lost my partner on Wednesday—my work partner.” She glanced at the empty seat next to her, where, I imagined, her partner would normally be.
Nellie shook her head, as if trying to figure something out, something that did not make sense. “He was only forty-two, healthy—strong! Just—gone—just—”
I didn’t know what to say except for the only thing I could manage to say—that I was sorry, so sorry.
Nellie nodded.
“And how are you doing? How is your family?”
“Everyone’s fine, everyone’s healthy—thank the Lord.”
“Yes, yes …”
“Thank the Lord,” Nellie said.
Nellie, Caretaker, Fulton Houses
April 19, 2020
56
For the first time in the New York City subway system’s 115-year history, the trains will not operate around the clock. Subway service on all lines will halt from one A.M. to five A.M. every day starting today so trains can be disinfected by workers.
When I heard this, the immediate image that came to my mind was of open-heart surgery—something I had the opportunity to witness once, a fascinating but grisly procedure that takes several hours: the patient’s heart is stopped temporarily (its functions taken over by a machine) while life-saving repairs are done to damaged arteries. I knew then as I know now, it’s precisely what has to be done, but there’s something unsettling about it at the same time: the idea that you can remain alive, technically, without your actual heart beating. It might be fixed once it’s restarted—as good as new or better—or it might not. You might never recover fully. You might never wake up.
57
Three subway scenes from before stay with me:
A young mother accidentally drops a baby toy as she carries an infant plus a bulky stroller up a crowded stairway at rush hour. The toy finally lands on a bottom step. Without a word, at least four people dash so fast to pick it up for her you’d almost think it was a pile of money. Kindnesses are palpable.
A construction guy sneezes on the platform across the tracks. Someone on my side calls out “Bless you,” and he tips his helmet in return.
A tall man gets on at Wall Street and sits on the opposite bench. He sees me studying my piano flash cards—I’m still trying to memorize all the notes—and he asks about them. He tells me he played piano throughout his childhood in Costa Rica—his mother made him. Now he works for a bank. “I wish I hadn’t stopped,” he says ruefully. He has long fingers, so unlike my stubby ones, and I imagine that he might have be
en a good pianist.
He notices the camera slung over my shoulder.
“Let me take your picture,” I say spontaneously, “a portrait.”
It takes a little bit of persuading, but eventually he agrees.
We get off at my stop and walk the few short blocks to my apartment. The sitting is very quick—fewer than ten minutes. He has to get home to his wife and kids.
“I never do things like this,” he tells me as he leaves.
“Then why did you?”
“Because I never do things like this,” he says.
Man from the Subway
June 15, 2015
58
“Have you ever climbed a mountain?” Oliver suddenly asks, apropos of nothing, as we lie in bed.
It’s a drowsy afternoon ten years ago, not long after we’d gotten together.
I think about it, trying hard to remember, and the answer seems to suggest everything I’ve missed, have yet to do, have put off, in my life.
“No, I never have—never climbed one.”
“You should. At my age, I don’t regret the things I’ve done but those I haven’t. I’m like a criminal in that way.”
I kiss him on the forehead.
“I’m going to try to remember that, you old crook.”
Panic/Don’t Panic
April 14, 2020
59
The U.S. has now surpassed more than 1.5 million known coronavirus cases, and at least 100,000 people have died. More than a third of these deaths have been among nursing home residents and workers. Yesterday, I learned that my late partner Steve’s mother, Millie, died from Covid-19 at the nursing home where she lived in Maryland.