Strange Times

It’s something of a jolt to realize that self-isolating isn’t all that much different from my usual life. I see Michael every day, get to the grocery and the drugstore once a week, and make semi-regular post office and bank runs but apart from that, unless I’m photographing a music performance or an animal event, I don’t have much interaction with my fellow human beings. I’ve come to think of it as blessing in disguise.

You’d hardly know anything was amiss until you start registering the closed signs and empty parking lots, the deserted streets and abandoned playgrounds. The city is suddenly quieter, barren almost like some film noir street scene. With the bars and restaurants and casinos shut down, downtown is desolate after five o’clock and even the riverfront is eerily still and silent.

A handful of coffee shops and delicatessens are still offering curbside takeout but more give up every day. The brewery where I spend do much time photographing musicians closes along with the few museums and art galleries we have, art and music festivals that have survived for years are canceled, the grocery stores cut their hours and begin rationing, some of the banks go to half days. All public schools are closed and there’re rumors they may not re-open at all this year. Any gathering of 50 or more people is prohibited and there’s beginning to be talk of curfews and martial law. We seems to be caught between a war zone and a plague novel. I spend my time telling myself not to panic but not too far below the surface is the fear that life as we’ve always known it, will never be the same. Everything we have taken for granted for all of our lives suddenly feels fragile and at risk. I’m feeling desperate for someone to blame.

At just past 7 in the morning, the grocery store is unusually crowded and for the first time I have a sense - just a hint, but enough to make me notice – of desperation and disaster. The familiar faces I see every week are strained and the smiles I’ve come to expect are forced. The shoppers, most in masks and protective clothing, dodge and weave through the aisles, snatching at the shelves and avoiding each other as best they can. The paper goods aisle is completely gutted – not a roll of tissue paper or paper towels or even a box of kleenex to be had. Each cash register features a prominent list of those items that are purchase-limited. Clearly stressed out managers are manning the check out lines and doing their best to soothe irate customers. This is a high end grocery store and heated arguments over who saw it first are pretty much foreign. It feels like dread.

I add low dose aspirin, Metamucil, and Ghirardelli caramel squares to my cart of cat and dogfood and litter and decide I can make do without anything I’ve forgotten. A line from Prairie Home Companion runs through my mind – “Fred’s Pretty Good Grocery, If we don’t have it, you can probably live without it.” Later I will make a 2^nd run for diet coke and cigarettes but for now I find I just want to be home with my animals and away from the craziness we have brought into our lives.