Back to Normal

It was all over.

At least, that is what everyone had been told. It had been declared as such and now, most people seemed ready and willing to go along with the notion. They were eager to put all of it behind them. They were eager to awaken from this bad dream. They were eager to forget the body bags and the fear.

Still, people were dying. Still, homes were being broken and dreams shattered. But the world writ large had moved on and absorbed itself in the newest outrage of the day. There were now wars and coups to worry about. In a true throwback to normality, mass shootings had begun in earnest once again. All but discarded lay the simplest of measures that might keep people safe from the once omnipotent power of global pandemic.

Cloth masks and KN95s littered the ground, discarded and trampled. Legions of white collar workers emerged from their sour dough and Tiger King hibernation to return to the office at the behest of tyrannical middle managers and executives. Perhaps they did so sparingly and with some complaint, but in the end they obeyed.

For those lucky enough to insulate themselves from the worst of the cataclysm, it had all been but a bad dream. The fractured homes, the empty goodbyes, the stacks of corpses and the broken hopes and dreams, the long hard years of trial and tribulation, the trauma, anger and fear were now thoroughly in the rearview mirror. The empty places at Thanksgiving dinner could be conveniently forgotten, not to be discussed lest the notion upset the delicate normalcy that was being restored.

Certainly, during the midst of the crisis they had deemed to acknowledge the suffering disproportionately felt by the lower and servant classes. Tears were shed, prayers sent to the poor, the isolated, the old and infirm. Heroes were acknowledged. “I could never do what you do” was the common refrain. They even sang out windows and smashed pots and pans together. What more could have possibly been done?

But now a perverse sense of bargaining had come over society at large. They had dictated exactly how much they were willing to do and determined what an acceptable level of death was (particularly if those that did the majority of the dying were sick, old, infirm, overweight or “stupid”).

But there were others. There were those who were among those unfortunate enough to have directly felt the ravages of the crisis. These were the ones who had lost people. These were the ones with prematurely greying hair and new wrinkles. These were the ranks of the new alcoholics and cynics. These were the ones that had been made homeless, lost their savings and had their identities stolen. These were the ones who had been denied toilet paper early in the crisis.

Now, victory had been declared. The upper classes had landed on the deck of the USS Carl Vinson in front of flag strewn banners declaring “Mission Accomplished,” while all the while the world around them continued to burn. Despite the objections of many, despite the entirely reasonable questions, their word was sacrosanct and not to be challenged. If it were not, then how would they have been elected to the highest offices and achieved their coveted positions in Corporate America?

No celebrations were held, VE day in Times Square this was not. There was no dramatic smashing of the Berlin Wall. No, this was a quieter, more subdued victory. They celebrated with concerts and brunch, much as they had celebrated every weekend before the crisis and would celebrate every weekend after.

The crisis was not to be mentioned. The emotional scars and trauma suffered by many were conveniently pushed aside. “We already told you, you’re heroes, what more could you possibly want?”

So it was that she sat alone on her stoop and watched the people pass by. They laughed and talked amongst themselves. From the cafes and bars, music and laughter was heard. In the apartments around her and condo rooftops above, parties were hosted.

Normal might be easy for them, but it was impossible for her. For them, the worst of the crisis was a brief shortage in soft tissue paper and flour. They had emptied the animal shelters and quickly returned the forgotten pets as they realized the depth of the responsibility.

It was hard for her, watching them all now. Leaving the house was hard for anything other than work. So she just sat, nervously twisting a few stray hairs between her right index finger and thumb. The tips of the hair were frayed and it had begun to grey and fall out, despite her young age. Her nails were cracked and short; she had begun biting them at some point during the midst of the crisis, a habit which she maintained in the post-crisis world.

Unable to focus, she would pick up her phone every few moments and scroll ideally through social media. People were at barbecues and the beach. Concerts were coming up and weddings were being attended. And around the world, new crises had erupted. New outrage had spread.

Unable to face it for longer than a few seconds, she would slide the phone with its past due bill back into the pocket of her faded, worn and tattered blue jeans after just a few seconds had passed. It was a pleasant afternoon in the city and trees of green swayed peacefully in the summer breeze. Birds chirped and for a moment, she closed her eyes as a soft breeze cooled her soft skin.

Her eyes closed such, she didn’t notice the Old Man hobble up to her. A battered cane strained beneath his weight and his beard and hair were grizzled, dirty and unkempt. He made as little noise as he could, allowing her peace. He leaned against her small chain link fence and removed his dirty baseball cap, dabbing beads of sweat from his bald head before putting it back on.

When she opened her eyes, the two looked at each other before quickly looking away. For a long while, they said nothing. They did not know each other, but had seen each other around the neighborhood over the course of the past four years.

She never learned his name and they had never spoken to one another. It was the unspoken rule of their microcosm of society, that neighbors said precious little to one another. They passed each other on the streets, with perhaps an awkward smile or curt nod. Nothing more was ever expected, leaving the crowded city neighborhood feeling strangely isolating.

During the crisis, she had noticed him more often, walking up and down their block, at first with the woman that she presumed to be his wife and then one day, conspicuously alone. Though it had never been said aloud (and she had no one to ask even if she had possessed the desire), she somehow knew that he had suffered a tragic loss. It was not just the solitude with which he now walked. His very aura seemed to have shattered, as if he were now carrying a massive burden that could never be lifted.

The Old Man simply looked at her for a moment with a sad, weary smile. Not knowing what else to do, she tried to return his smile. She found herself afraid to make eye contact with him.

They watched a young couple push a double wide Dior stroller, their eyes hidden behind designer sunglasses, their trim figures on display in fitted workout clothes. They didn’t speak as they passed her and The Old Man, their steps quickening as they continued on the way to their duplex down condominium, the construction of which had displaced a 64 year old Guatemalan woman and a single waitress with two kids. For just a moment, the man looked at the two and, as if sensing that for them the crisis had not, and would never end, he quickly hung his head. He glanced at his iPhone 12 and muttered something inaudible to his blonde haired companion.

She watched as the two departed. So did the Old Man. He shook his large head. His shirt was stained, his legs varicose beneath his old shorts. She looked down at her old Convers, the laces frayed and the soles tattered and worn.

“They don’t like us, do they?” The Old Man said finally. His voice was hoarse and sad. It was a question, but something about his words told her that it was little more than a statement of pure fact. It was an unspoken truth. Something that made both her and The Old Man profoundly sad. But it was something about which nothing could be done.

“No, I don’t think they do.” She replied finally. A deep sense of discontentment washed over her and for a moment, she felt as if she might burst into tears. Quickly and calmly, with the skills of one with decades of experience hiding emotion, she pushed the feeling aside and composed herself. In the trenches of the war that was her life, there was no room for excess displays of feeling. That kind of thing could lead to angry customers and one star reviews.

Truthfully, she felt almost at home with the sensation. There would be room for tears later. When she was alone, in her room in the darkness of night. When no one was looking. When there was no one to pass judgment or disparage. When there was no one to ask to see the manager or condescend. With these years of experience, she was now well suited to navigate the end of the crisis with the same stoic cynicism with which she had navigated her life before the crisis.

“I think I make them uncomfortable.” He continued after another pause, his eyes glassy. “Lived here for 15 years, never known fewer neighbors than I do now.” His eyes were glassy and for just a moment, she thought she could see a tear run down his cracked, worn cheek.

He remembered moving into his current home with his wife all those years ago. They had both still been working then, he in a hardware store and she in a small restaurant. He tried not to think of those days, as they were characterized by friendly neighbors, by barbeques and block parties. He remembered kids playing on the block and working in the garages of friends. Now, remembering those long gone days brought only pain.

As the years passed, people moved away. It had happened so slowly and steadily that he had not even noticed it. It was as if one day, in the blink of an eye a decade and a half had passed and he and his wife were the only ones left from the old neighborhood.

It had brought him a great sense of despondence and sadness. Around him, everything seemed vaguely familiar but somehow completely different. He felt as if he were a ghost haunting the neighborhood, nothing more than a monument or reminder to times long past. But as long as his wife had been with him, it wasn’t all that bad.

They were both retired now, living on their social security income. Their landlord, though raising the rent every year since they had moved in, was not unreasonable and had abstained from forcing them out. The neighborhood, while less friendly and recognizable, was still convenient and familiar, despite all of the changes. He enjoyed seeing the new businesses open and the new people move in.

And every night, he went to bed next to his wife.

Until one night, after she had been rushed to the hospital with a high fever and struggling to breathe, he went to bed alone.

That first night alone had been restless, as had every night while she was in the hospital, until after 12 days and with little fanfare, she had died, another tick on an ever increasing national body count.

The night that she died, he lay awake in their shared bed, gazing at the book on her bedside table. A copy of Don Quixote, a burgundy bookmark stuck about halfway through. She would never finish that book. She would never again plant a tulip in their small front yard or enjoy another espresso at their kitchen table while gently stroking the orange tabby she had adopted. And he would spend every night for the rest of his life alone.

He would have to move, of that he was certain. The memories in this home and this neighborhood were now simply too painful to bear. Now, he truly was nothing more than a ghost, a specter wandering up and down the streets all alone searching for what was long since lost and would never return. Even were the sadness not too much to bear, affording the rent on his social security allotment alone was simply impossible.

She sighed and looked back towards the door of her small basement apartment. It was damp and often flooded when the rain was heavy. Long ago, she had learned not to put anything of value directly on the floor and that plastic bins were a necessity. “Got a five-day notice the other day.” She said in his presence, though the words were to no one in particular. She didn’t know why she said it, or where the words came from, only that they should be said.

“Hmm.” The Old Man acknowledged sympathy. He shifted his weight and winced as something unknown within his body cracked. “Anything to be done?”

She scoffed and hung her head again looking down at her feet. “Don’t see how. Back at work now, but no way I’m ever gonna catch up. Probably gonna have to move.”

“Hmm.” He repeated the same noise as he watched a young man in a red polo shirt struggle to parallel park his bright blue Tesla. “Sorry to hear that.”

She scoffed again and looked up at him, removing her scratched glasses and rubbing her tired brown eyes. “Whatever. Place is a dump anyways.”

“Okay.” The Old Man nodded. “Glad you're back at work though.”

“It’s a blessing.” The words rang hollow and her voice cracked. She remembered her shift manager loudly berating her and her coworker Jose the night before. She remembered a text message from the general manager informing her that the two days she had requested off to go out of town for her cousin’s wedding had been canceled due to unexpectedly high business. She remembered a customer cursing her out in front of everyone and being forced to stand there and take it, droplets of spittle careening out of his irate mouth, his face red and veins pumping gallons of furious blood throughout his trembling body.

She also remembered the series of events that had led to her unfortunate layoff. Feeling harassed and threatened, sick of low pay and inconsistent hours she had approached the manager one evening after closing with Jose. Gently, they had asked for some changes and made recommendations. Their manager, his mustard yellow short sleeved button up shirt wrinkled and a size too small had listened, nodding sympathetically.

Bags under his tired brown eyes, he nodded. “Look, I get it.” He had said after listening to them. “But there’s nothing I can do. Corporate makes all decisions about policy.”

Three days later, pink slips had come for her and Jose. Despite record profits and a demand that had more than made up for the lull during the crisis years, corporate HQ had dictated that economic realities of the new world were forcing layoffs (and simultaneous price increases, brought on of course by the situation abroad and ongoing issues with the supply chain). They simply could not continue to operate the company with such razor thin profit margins.

The same day that the pink slips had come for her and Jose, notices had gone up in the kitchen and moldy break room warning against the pitfalls of unionization and extolling the virtues of their company which was more like a family than a group of coworkers.

“I wasn’t even thinking about a union.” Jose had said, his eyes glassy, his voice low and confused. “Really, I wasn’t.”

She had nodded her head, brushing a thin strand of black hair behind her ear. “Yeah I know, me neither.”

“What am I supposed to do? What will I tell my family?”

She shrugged her thin shoulders, feeling tired and weary. Her lower back ached and she closed her dark eyes. “I don’t know Jose, I’m really sorry.” She had wanted to wrap her arms around his broad shoulders, but was simply too tired.

That afternoon, after returning home she had applied for unemployment insurance. Her claim was quickly denied. On appeal it had been approved and she would receive $287 each week. This was how she had fallen behind. Six weeks with no income coming in and now a paltry amount made it impossible to make ends meet.

She had sold clothes and jewelry, including her favorite red dress, bought on her vacation to Los Angeles with her best friend and a pair of jade earrings given to her by her grandmother. She had canceled internet service and reduced expenses as best she could. She had visited food pantries and did whatever odd jobs she could. It was not enough.

Three months later, in desperate need of workers, her manager had called her and asked if she might consider returning. He had muttered apologies and spoken softly, wearing that same mustard yellow shirt that he had worn the evening she and Jose had approached him. The bags under his eyes had grown and he walked with his head low now. She had been a good worker and if she just promised not to make any more waves, then she would be allowed to return.

Knowing the direness of her own situation, she had swallowed her pride and accepted his offer. Her first shift back she had been berated and mocked by a male customer when she asked him to please wear his mask over his nose and mouth. Foolish girl, didn’t she know that the crisis was over?

The Old Man looked at her for a long moment and again removed his hat to dab sweat from the top of his head. “Just glad it’s all over.” His voice cracked. He did not speak what it was that he was referring to, but they both knew. It was that which was not supposed to be discussed. The forbidden subject, verbal heresy.

“It’s a blessing.”

“It’s a blessing.” The young man had finally, on his fourth attempt, succeeded in getting that shiny blue Tesla into the parking spot. The driver darted out of his car and entered Frog & Empress, the new restaurant a few doors down the tree lined street. Neither She nor the Old Man had ever set foot in the establishment despite it being a few short steps from both of their homes. It was in the space once occupied by a small family run laundromat, which had closed about a year before the present crisis had begun.

For a long moment, they both said nothing. “Who’d you lose?” She finally asked, her heart skipped as she spoke, dancing on the forbidden subject and breaking a cherished social norm. She already knew the answer.

“My wife.” The Old Man said after a moment. His voice was soft and barely could be heard over the murmur of the crowds, barking dogs and screaming children named Archer and Maple. Her heart strained as she heard his words. His body bent and sagged and for a moment she was afraid that he might fall to the pavement.

She nodded solemnly and felt her heart ache. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” Another pause. “How about you?”

She swallowed. “My grandmother, my job and soon my home.”

“Sorry.”

It was all over. The long dark days were over, they had been vanquished, never to return. Those who brought up the issues, the societal cracks and those left behind were ostracized. People like herself and The Old Man were to be abandoned and pushed even further to the fringes where they could be out of sight of every young man in his Tesla, of every couple with Dior strollers and designer sunglasses. Of every patron and denizen of Frog & Empress.

She was to be forgotten, along with The Old Man. Just as they had been before the crisis. They were the poor and disposable before the crisis, they were poor and disposable during the crisis and they would be poor and disposable now that the crisis had passed. It was all they had ever been and it was all that they would ever be. Poor and disposable.

They didn’t exchange any more words. The Old Man hobbled away after another moment, pain visible in every slow step that he took. After he left, She continued to watch the street that was no longer Her’s for just a little bit longer before she too vanished.