That we must rely on each other is one of the more nauseating dynamics that we’ve had to accept since the Pandemic. I say ‘we’, but of course, vast numbers of people all over the world are not much smarter than a sentient enema. Whether people are being willfully problematic because they’re scared, ignorant, nihilistic or some combination of the three really doesn’t matter. What matters is that now every time I walk into the world, I have to dress up like a low-rent superhero addicted to cheap latex. That all my good work - bolstered by discomfort and and drenched in latex sweat - could be undone by a fat person refusing to wear a mask at a Florida Walmart makes me very angry most of the time.
Anger is useful to me. It lets you feel in control without that being true. And sometimes, when the rage hits just right, it can inspire inspired action. My noisy upstairs neighbor, to pluck an abstract example completely at random, has been remarkably quiet since I slipped an anonymous note under his door last week describing in flourishing, descriptive visuals how someone might murder him in his sleep were he to keep dancing post 11 pm again.
“Be kind,” I said to myself. “If this were your ancient grandmother you’d want someone to help her.” So I tightening my mask, pulled up my latex gloves and flew in for the rescue
I’ve slept well since Tuesday, and although I thank my anger for that, it is a last resort. The truth is: anger hasn’t helped me much in the last six months, not as much as seeing kindness and compassion. The times when I felt the calmest since the pandemic began have been when I witnessed small kindnesses by strangers; overtipping because they know the waiter isn’t working as much, buying from small business owners versus large chains, giving a kid a free ice cream because it’s a hot day, paying for someone’s groceries in the check-out line, etc.
People may not remember what you did or said, but they will always remember how you made them feel. It’s a nice mantra, and one that I repeated to myself in a loop last Thursday. I had just left my apartment laden with heavy trash bags, when I turned the corner to find an ancient being slowly proceeding down the stairs. My first instinct was to hide in my apartment until she was gone, more for her safety than for mine, but then I heard the uneven thumps.
Step. Step. Thump. Pause. Repeat. Curiosity won and as I leaned around the corner I saw she was maneuvering a giant cardboard box behind her. She’d take one painful, groaning step down, then rest, and begin trying to get her other foot to join her. Then she’d turn around, nudged the box slightly so gravity pulled it down one more stair, and then repeated the whole process again with a depressing sigh. The rhythm hypnotized me, so that it wasn’t until my phone buzzed that I realized she had gone down three steps in ten minutes, and we were still three floors up from freedom.
The Coronavirus pandemic has been particularly tough for the elderly around the world
“Be kind,” I said to myself. “If this were your ancient grandmother you’d want someone to help her.” So I tightening my mask, pulled up my latex gloves and flew in for the rescue.
“Allow me.” I swooped up behind her to picked up the box. “Allow me,” I crooned. The box weight at least 30 lbs and I found myself inexplicably angry at her for not having told me that fact before I swooped.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said cheerfully, and scurried down past her carrying the box making sure not to breathe, lest Covid. Her expression, until then a mix of shock and confusion, gave way to unbridled panic.
“Zatrzymać!” she screamed, raiding her tiny, bony fists into the air.
“Jesus whats wrong, im just trying…to…how are you so strong?!” She was trying to wrestle the box away from me.
“I’m not trying to steal the box,” I insisted, pulling it back. But she was a fighter, and all 4 feet 2 inches of her lunged for the box. I considered dropping it on her but something told me she’d be more difficult to explain in the trash bin.
“I’m just being nice!” I hissed.
“Złodziej!” She shouted, punching my arm.
“It’s an act of kindess!”
“Kradzież!”
“Stop spitting at me you stupid crone! There is godamn pandemic!”
Back and forth we went until I saw a shipping address on the box for Poland and a light went off in my head.
“REKLAMA!” I screamed, and just like magic, she stopped in her tracks. I could hear us both gasping in the silence.
For context: due to reasons best left unexplored, satellite TV channels in Pakistan are all from Poland, with the result that the only world I know of Polish was the one that flashed between every TV show every night: Reklama. This loosely translates to “Commercial break”.
“Reklama!” I said again, turned and went running downstairs with the box. The whole thing turned out to be a waste of time, because someone was moving a couch in the building so I had to wait by the trash room at the foot of the stairs for a full ten minutes as she hurled abuses at me with her every glacial step.
Eventually, she saw I hadn’t run off and her cataracts softened.
“Dont even try it Granny,” I murmured as I left. “I slip you your note soon enough…”
