The Last Time

 

In pre-pandemic times I prided myself on living a pretty hyperthyroid cultural and social NYC life - perhaps justifying to myself why I would choose to live in the city of hardship, by taking advantage of the upsides even as I never escaped the feeling of FOMO.  Would I ever get to DiFara's again before the old guy making the pizza dies?  That touted big MOMA show that's closing next weekend? 

Looking back at my calendar for January and February 2020, I can't believe our pace. And how much of it happened to be celebrating our friends' work. 

But by the Ides of March, I would be tormented about whether to even attend my best friend's wedding.

In the weeks leading up to pandemic panic, we had enjoyed Courtney Barnett concert at Levon Helm's Woodstock Barn. Painter Nicole Wittenberg's gallery opening. Two or three plays a week, including Ruth Negga at Hamlet at St. Ann's, Erik Jensen and Jessica Blank's Coal Country at the Public, a long-gestating oral history of a coal mining disaster with live music by Steve Earle (that my daughter had helped transcribe some interviews for). Syd's college classmate Blair Underwood tearing up A Soldier's Play on Broadway. 

Then there were readings -- Cathy Park Hong's Minor Feelings at Books are Magic, Rebecca Traister interviewing Peggy Orenstein about Boys & Sex at the Strand, playwright Brooke Berman's screenplay reading in a theater basement, an ACT UP gathering in Brooklyn, a Columbia writing class taught by Sam Freedman with guest Min Jin Lee. 

More: A meal in a tiny midtown Italian joint with my octagenarian aunt and uncle. Popping in to a gallery to witness Patrik Graham live-drop a soft clay bust of his head to make his flattened art for a school fundraiser. Practicing my latest volunteer tour of Central Park on some patient friends. 

As March hit, this pace didn't exactly come to a screeching halt -- more like a creeping horror movie one. These adventures, as well as more mundane, everyday activities that I took for granted -- sitting with an editor in a bay at CNN (hell, going in to the offices at CNN) -- meeting a friend at a coffee shop -- riding a subway train --  gradually had an underlying drumbeat of fear that grew louder and louder. 

The star of Jagged Little Pill who we didn't see. 3/4/20

Looking back, my first conscious awareness of the shift was Wednesday, March 4 - what turned out to be our last Broadway show, Jagged Little Pill. We sat cheek by jowl in the packed house, but Syd brought hand sanitizer. We saw an understudy for the the lead actress, Elizabeth Marshall - her first missed performance of the run -- which is always exciting, because you can feel the cast supporting the understudy - -but Marshall would later hypothesize that she had the coronavirus.  (A week later, the show, like most plays, would be forced to shutter.)

The Plot Against America panel, 92nd St. Y. 3/6/20

Two nights later, we attended a premiere screening of HBO's The Plot Against America at the 92nd St. Y with creator David Simon and stars John Turturro, Winona Ryder, and Morgan Spector. More signs of the new abnormal. Co-star Zoe Kazan had stayed in California instead of getting on a plane. The meet and greet with the cast in the lobby after was cancelled. We sat near the back. 

When a person coughed, the whole room turned and stared. 

The following Monday, more creeping caution. I took and passed my Central Park Ramble Tour test - but instead of shaking hands with my proctors, we rubbed elbows, semi-ironically. 

That night we had a dinner party with two couples we had wanted to introduce to each other. Nobody was masked -- they hadn't warned us to do so yet. We all half-joked if this was the last time we'd get to do so for a while. 

Little did we know.  

Tenement Museum tour, 3/10/20

The next day I took a Tenement Museum walking tour of the Lower East Side. The participants stayed socially distanced.

Then I met a friend in town from Nashville for lunch. We had planned to go to Katz's Deli, but that seemed like it would be thronged, including many out-of-towners - at this point the warnings were about the virus coming in via planes and boats, remember? -- so we opted for a small place. 

The waiter wore a mask. When he offered to grate parmesan on my pasta, I remember hesitating -- was his hand going to give me the illness?

That would be my last meal in a restaurant to date. 

Then came Friday the 13th. (I know!)

I wore a suit to CNN that day for the first time, because I planned to go right to the Brooklyn wedding of my college roommate/bestie - his third time. The first marriage had ended in divorce, the second with the tragic cancer death of his wife. I wanted to be there for him and his three kids, but also, for his wife, who is in her 50s and for whom this was a first wedding. I didn't want her to feel the night was cursed or wasn't worth celebrating.  

Syd demurred shlepping all the way from Harlem and back and I couldn't argue with her. I was happy that my subway car was fairly empty, and sent her a selfie as reassurance. (I now see some panic in my face.) 

But after arriving at the venue, I sanitized repeatedly, stayed away from strangers. I participated in the ceremony by reading something and applauding from the front row, I was incredibly moved - from the back of the room - by the newly united family's group hug -- and I skedaddled before the meal was served. 

On my walk back to the subway, I ran into a former co-worker from ABC news jogging with her dog. We hadn't seen each other in years. We bumped elbows. 

That kind of random encounter, too, would become nearly non-existent for the next year. 

The next day would be my last in the office for the rest of the year (and more). I was issued a "work from home laptop." I haven't been back since. The job has been doable remotely, thankfully we had worked together long enough that we knew the drill. (I can't work in person with an editor any more, though so there's a lot of additional back and forth via email.) I don't get to be in the control room during the show, so there are a lot of texts, phone calls, emails, and ragged nerves. 

Our past life has turned into Zoom simulacra: video with family instead of birthday and holiday gatherings (even college graduations). Virtual catch-ups with friends instead of dinners or flying to see them. Video "plays" instead of being in an audience. Many anticipated events have been cancelled or postponed. (Elton John's farewell concert from 2020 pushed to 2022! Stay healthy, Reg!)

So I was happy to qualify for a vaccine (I have a "co-morbidity," suddenly an asset) this week, though there are some questions about whether it will take because of some meds I'm on. 

Will it be the last time? Or will we end up needing shots every year? Will we be able to gather in groups without the cloud of suspicion and fear? 

One thing I know that the Year of Living Covidly has taught me: there were times a year ago that I thought I might be doing too much, because I feared it all might blur together. 

Nope.