oh, gross

Before it became a national catastrophe, “C*r*naVirus” was just a hilarious ploy that scared people into choosing a different Mexican lager to go with their melted white cheese and perfectly salted tortilla chips. An image circulated from a “doctor’s office” that cited the different viruses that plagued every election year, as if to point fingers at a hypochondriacal bipartisanship that somehow blamed the media, politicians, and the public for overhype on diseases that actually proved to kill thousands.

Even now, as I stroll through my elderly parents living room, beelining for the fridge for another locally crafted beer to accompany my introverted introspection on the beauty that is creating new art instead of living in the global terror that news networks purport round the clock, I’m still baffled as to how the numbers of confirmed cases continues to rise even after the Birmingham mayor issued a stay-in-shelter mandate for those who aren’t going to work or buying out toilet paper stock. 

Last I checked, in my lonesome alcoholic stupor between bingeing cringe-worthy Netflix reality shows and reading apocalyptic “non”fiction, the count was at 198, just yesterday. When I drunkenly glanced at the television that bounces between biased news sources and Perry Mason reruns, the count was at 587. In just one day (or more, time is a social construct), people had somehow still managed to contract, spread, and get tested for a virus even when police now have the authority to fine and/or jail you for accidentally brushing against someone you pass on the street.

I should be more concerned for my own health. We should all be more concerned. But there is still a narcissistic optimism that persists amongst the American people: What will I do once this all goes back to normal? How will I afford my overpriced studio apartment in the affluent neighborhood that is affectionately referred to as “The Little Kingdom” so that I may retain my rightful status as a high-functioning member of society while I slave for the tips of millionaires? How will I entertain my children now that they’re out of school for the foreseeable future and I still have to work to put food on the table?

No need to worry: The American government has the perfect solution: money! If we give the people a check with “no strings attached”, they will simply sigh with relief and continue to remain indoors, while still making daily trips to the grocery store for random objects they “forgot” to get, which is really just an excuse to get out of the house. 

In suburbs removed from commercial areas, beautifully deemed “drive til you quality” by economics professors, life has become mundane. Today, every neighbor I’ve ever had the pleasure of giving the “black man nod” to was out in their yard, making painfully casual conversation with other retired black folks they hadn’t spoken to in months, if not years. I got to share cautious smiles with young adults I used to play with as a kid, nodding at our shared agony: returning home.

It hasn’t been all bad, of course. I’ve had the pleasure to create every day, with little interruption save requests for fetching one of the sixteen bottles of bleach from the basement or organizing childhood photos into scrapbooks. Pictures showing a trip to Disney World where my parents took turns hugging me close to them in crowds of white people, strong black hands gripping my once feminine shoulders. Multiple pictures of my first day of Episcopal school, squinting into the sun while each picture I bared my teeth just a little bit harder than the last. Pictures with cousins I’ve long since lost touch with because my mother insisted she had to cut them out of her life and yet still sends boxes of clothes to my cousin’s second child. 

Only now do I reflect on the memories I have created since then. Helping a goat give birth. Breeding and feeding a colony of rats. Supervising 35 dogs in a play group. Lube wrestling at a gay bar. Being the only black kid at a hardcore punk show. Unabashedly flirting with straight white boys. Driving. 

Before, I had finally found my mojo again. I started doing comedy. I planned my first drag show. I was training to finally be a real bartender. I was asking about management openings. I was applying for apartments. I was going on dates.

Now, I’m not so sure.