Ode to Quarantine

By Eion Plenn

Left shoe on first, then right. Tie laces extra tight — double knot. Don’t want to have to stop on asphalt. Next, grab apartment keys. Then headphones. Spotify, what you got?  Quarantine playlist. No thank you. “Guardians of the Galaxy” Deluxe SoundTrack. Better. Hooked on a Feeling. 

Lock door. Say “hi” to neighbors — from 6 feet. Maybe 7. No, that’s a little far. Six feet apart requires closed captioning.

Brisk jog to elevator. Fork in the road — there’s buttons. Public buttons. Virus could last on public buttons for 72 hours. Saw that on a YouTube video. Just apply a germ sleeve! Carefully press ‘DOWN’ with sleeve. Phew. That was a close one. 

Doors open. Another public button. Level 1. Press quickly. Refrain from all the inner 5-year-old urges to press every public button in an elevator. A pandemic is not the time.

Ding. 

Now outside. Pittsburgh smells like mulch. Better than car exhaust. Wasn’t there something about this whole thing being good for the trees? Jogging picks up. Crossing Centre Avenue now. Streets are eerie. Eerie and empty are synonyms. No cars in sight. Streetlights never go red. Sidewalks stuffed with dog walkers. And street bikers. And runners. Yes, plenty of runners. Keep going straight! Pump that blood!

How long is this quarantine going to last? Grandma says everyone will be in their swimsuits on Memorial Day. Cable news places money on the Fourth of July. Dave who came in 15 minutes late to online calculus class says it could last until October. Online Halloween. Note to self: dress up as a computer virus. Be ironic.

Oh no.

Mom with twins in a purple stroller approaching. Red alert! Maintain the 6 feet — no — maintain the 12. Double the distance because breathing is heavier. Sympathetic nervous system is engaging. Respiratory droplets launching themselves to the fairway. Maybe even the green. Fooorrre!

Purple stroller coming closer. Prepare the smile and the wave. But maintain the 6 — no, 12 — feet. Suddenly, nose feels runny. Oh no. Mucous membranes are unloading. Nostrils are opening. ACHOO. 

Oops. 

Mom with twins in purple stroller sees you. Dirty stares. “It’s just allergies, I swear!” — from 12 feet away. Really wish there was closed captioning. 

Apply germ sleeve to nose. Rinse, and repeat.

Last mile. Panting like a dog. Heard dogs can get the virus. Heard it on the news. Passing Whole Foods now. People waiting for grocery pick up. Correction: Mostly white people waiting for grocery pick up. Mostly black people sitting at bus stop. Squeaky wheel from the bus pulls up. 71B. Black people get on buses without masks. White people wait at Whole foods with masks 7 feet away from each other. Who gets the masks?

Stop thinking. Just watch the news. Listen to government: “The U.S. Surgeon General explains why minorities are hit harder by coronavirus.” Listen to government: black plus brown equals more susceptible. But why? Higher rates of blood pressure. Higher rates of obesity. But why? 

Don’t ask questions. You know this. Blood pressure correlates with stress. Stress correlates with running, and economic inequality, and housing inequality, and racis— shhh! Don’t say that. Cover your mouth after you sneeze. Here, have a mask. Are the masks even big enough?

 This is all you can do. Run 12 feet apart. Don’t forget to look up.

Another screech. Bus stops again. Black women pour onto the pavement on Centre Avenue like soldiers. Just swap camo for scrubs. Caring for our brothers and our sisters and our parents and our grandparents. Teal, magenta, daffodils and roses. Rainbows on the sidewalk.

Back at apartment. Sun is golden. Run is over. Check mail with germ sleeve. Go up elevator. Don’t touch anything. Once in apartment, wash hands for 20 seconds. Maybe make it 30. Treat yourself. You have the privilege.