Pre-pandemic, I would journal each night about the day’s events—pretty mundane stuff, but, as the anniversary of the beginning of quarantine approaches, I’d like to share my last entry before everything changed. Don’t judge too harshly (I never intended to publish this!), but perhaps it can serve as a snapshot of ordinary life in New York City a year ago—which feels like a century! I’ve added present-day annotations in italics.
MARCH 12, 2020
Today, I woke up at the crack of dusk and downed two cups of three-day-old joe, trying to wipe away the cobwebs of last night (courtesy of a certain speakeasy that shall remain nameless, lest the cellar smellers raid it!). I was set to have a casual chew with an old Chicago chum, Georgie, so I decided to dress down—three-piece tweed suit, cap-toe oxfords, crimson pocket square, and my brown felt derby hat.
Can you believe we used to dress like this?! I haven’t worn anything but athleisurewear since my “elastic waistbands only” policy took effect last April (LOL)—but, a year ago, this outfit was totally normal!
My dogs were already barking, so I tried to hail a hack, but this dame steps out in front of me and pinches the bucket like I was some apple knocker just off the jitney from Palookaville. Not that I minded the view—this jane had getaway sticks that would make Father O’Malley give himself confession. She was dressed like a flapper but carried herself like the Queen of England. The doll takes one last drag off her dincher, flicks it at my ground grippers, and disappears into the dented dimbox like a movie star gliding into a première-night cake basket. Yowza. I thought about taking a cold shower, but I was late, so I took a powder to the subway, cramming into the lemon squeezer just before the doors juiced shut.
Wow, remember casually piling onto a packed subway?! Now you couldn’t pay me to (not even in a hazmat suit). But, back then, who thought twice?
I arrived to find Georgie already three sheets into a liquid dinner. Hinky. Barely dark out, and he’s already smoked on giggle water? “What gives?” I asked. George smiled sadly and replied, “What takes, more like.” We jawed. Turned out, his problem was a tomato—and I don’t mean the kind in his Bloody Mary. He was bats about some canary who sang cabaret at a drum downtown. She only had eyes for him . . . and “some other guy.” And that’s when Georgie went off his noodle. “I can’t live without her,” he moaned. “I need a favor—I need you to rub this guy out.”
God, remember just hanging out with a friend (in person!), chatting about life, relationships—just whatevs came up? Today, this same conversation would be a Zoom call that froze five times before we finally gave up, haha!
“You’re tootin’ the wrong ringer,” I protested. “I don’t do stuff like that.” Georgie smiled and said, “Oh, yeah? I seem to remember a guy back in Chi-Town used to do stuff like that. Spittin’ image of you. Chicago Lightnin’, he was called. Best button man in the biz. Ring any church bells?” I started sweating. “That dropper’s long gone,” I said, nicking George’s Bloody, and tipping it back.
Um, germ alert! How March of 2020 is that? Gross!
George slid me an envelope—a thousand smackers large, snuggled like an old blanket around a sleeping dog named Roscoe (snub-nosed .22, easy to conceal). I slid it back, muttering, “I already got enough iron in my diet.” George plunked down another small mountain of scratch. “I hear it’s lacking in spinach,” he said. “Unless you like shacking up at that flea-bitten flophouse by the docks?” The waitress arrived and said, “What’ll ya have?”
Argh, remember restaurants? And those wonderful people who’d ask what you wanted, bring it to you, then do the dishes so you didn’t have to? God, I miss restaurants! 🙁
“So, what dive does this chippy squawk at?” I inquired. “Funny you should ask . . . .” George replied. The lights go down, and my peepers just about fall outta my conk—it’s the Queen of England! The same dizzy dish who stole my cab struts out onstage, sings two notes of “Cuban Moon,” and steals my heart. By the second verse, I was ready to bump George’s other guy. By the third, I kinda wanted George zotzed, too.
Man, remember live music? A packed crowd, hanging onto a maskless singer’s every note? Ugh, I can’t believe I haven’t been to a concert in a freakin’ year!
I stared at the envelope, fat with lettuce, and the heater. Was I really gonna throw lead again on account of some twist I’d never even met? All I knew was that everything I ever wanted, ever needed, was up on that stage calling me with an angel’s voice up to Heaven (or maybe down to Hell).
Aw, remember that feeling of meeting someone new and special IRL?! I’ve tried “FaceTime dates” during the pandemic, but you just can’t replicate that in-person spark.
George cleared his throat. “So, Chicago Lightnin’,” he began, “you ready to strike one last time?” I looked at George. Then at the envelope. Thunder sounded in the distance.
Starting the next day, my daily journal is all, “pandemic this” and “COVID that.” But, hopefully, with the vaccines and all, life will go back to normal soon. I really miss normal twenty-first-century life!
