Temper-19

1 - Pandemic

Monday
April 4th, 2020

The coffee shop is dead. Like, we're losing money just keeping the lights on dead.
Judging by the fact that my boss has been pacing in front of the cafe window for the last ten minutes, biting her fingernails down to the quick and nursing a cold coffee, I'd say Charity is also worried about the financial ramifications of this pandemic.
As if she can feel my worry from across the room, she glances back at me. "Has it started yet?"
I check my phone for the tenth time in as many minutes. "Not yet."
State by state, we've tracked the progress of this virus, watching the death toll climb, knowing that we're not immune and it will eventually reach our soil. And it has. Yesterday, Vixen Bluff had its first positive case. It's first resident requiring hospitalization. She's a young woman, maybe just a few years older than I am, and was relatively healthy. Was, being the key word. Now, she's fighting for her life in a hospital bed while her husband facetimes her from where he's quarantined at home with their two children.
This doesn't feel real. It feels like a doomsday movie and all we need is one of the Hemsworth brothers to bust up into Big Pharma and kick some asses into gear until someone unveils a cure. But this isn't a movie. It's real life. Real people are dying. Real mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters. The young and the old alike. The rich and the homeless. White, black, yellow, and brown. No one is immune.
No one.
Scrolling through Facebook as I wait, I check in with my friends and family spread out all over the country. Each one is dealing with this catastrophe in a different way. One of the first photos to pop up in my feed is one of Elliot and Colt McKnight-my father and big brother-sitting on the deck back at the farm, each one raising a half-empty bottle of Corona, sans lime, both wearing their trademark shit-eating grins. It's been so long since I've been out to see them that my chest begins to ache, so I scroll past. Bay Riggs and Addison Mantel, my two best friends from high school are both chasing kids around, complaining about how their house is a war zone and their crotch fruit is eating them out of house and home, but they're still all smiles, even though they look utterly exhausted.
All of Ethan's family are the same. Stuck in quarantine, miserable I'm sure, but keeping up face for the sake of social media. His parents, Dallas and Kennedy, are donning matching masks in their photo, and his little sister Emmy, being the rebel that she is, posted a video early this morning of her standing on the balcony of her apartment, blowing kisses to the camera as a shirtless man in the background prowled up behind her.
Other posts include photos of people cuddling their pets, reviews of books people now have the time to read, art from people who haven't picked up a number two pencil since graduation, and of course an abundance of memes surrounding a viral show I have neither the want nor the time to watch. And yet, everywhere I look, every photo, every joke, every fear written out in blog format...all I see is hope.
They are all staying home with their loved ones, hunkering down, ready to ride out this particular storm. And even though the menacing clouds loom on the horizon, every single person on my friend's list seems hopeful. They seem content.
A wave of something green and completely unwelcome washes over me when I realize why I'm so uncomfortable on social media; because whether or not it's faked or forced, every person connected to me, everyone I know in this life...they all look so damn happy.
Why?
And also...how?
Life is fucking hard. Who has the energy to be that happy? Or even to pretend to be that happy?
I sure as hell don't. Maybe a few years ago. But not now. Definitely not today.
My phone chirps with a notification that the governor has started the live stream everyone in the state has been waiting for and I grab it off the counter, waving Charity over. "It's starting!"
She's at my side in a second, leaning her head on my shoulder so we can both see the screen.
"Good afternoon..."
As soon as he begins to speak, I close my eyes and pray.
Please don't send me home.
Please don't send me home.
Please...please, God, don't make him send me home.
As soon as the governor formally issues the stay-at-home order, my stomach drops and Charity lifts her head to look at me, as if she can sense the shift taking place inside my body.