The COVID-19 is not good, gentlefriends. In fact, I’m gonna say it’s bad. That said, my wife and I are taking all the precautions. When it became abundantly clear that school was going to shut down, I did a store run. I got La Croix, beer, V8, granola bars, beer, coffee, extra Zoloft, and beer. When we unloaded the car, our neighbor boy was like “I guess we don’t need water!” And I was like “hey, beer is also hydrating and it protects you from cholera!” And he was honestly surprised I brought cholera into the conversation, but also agreed that I was rightly thinking ahead.
When I returned from boxing the other night, my wife had experienced a moment of clarity while I was gone. As she bleach-wiped my keys, chapstick, and wedding ring, she informed me that it was probably a bad idea to continue boxing for the foreseeable future considering the unsanitary nature of a boxing gym. Bummer.
We are obviously concerned about our neighbor, the octogenarian. But we have a case of Kleenex and Gatorade and my wife has a protocol surrounding sanitation of all surfaces any of us touch when we return from the cold, harsh world. The octogenarian is unconcerned about these protocols. She went out for quarantine supplies and returned with vodka. No paper products. No non-perishables. Just the vodka. To be fair, we did have to go out yesterday so we asked if she needed anything. She requested Parmesan and fresh garlic. I don’t know what sort of quarantine she’s got going on over there, but I sure am glad we will be in good company during the apocalypse.
Not that I can judge the octogenarian. My wife’s only quarantine requests were clove cigarettes and coffee. I bought so much Italian roast. I asked if we should buy fruit. You know, to prevent scurvy. My wife pointed out that we have four orange trees (in the event we run out of lime for beer).
I’ll be honest. I still have part of a book to write. I’m editing other people’s books. The idea of a week or four indoors with a bunch of chips and beer feels very conducive to my process. Normally I have to jump through a fuckload of hoops to get just a week of silence and beer and coffee and no other work when I’m approaching a deadline. But the God I don’t believe in clearly wants me to create more queer fiction. It’s the only reasonable explanation for this pandemic. Unless you believe in like “science” or whatever. But I’m choosing to believe it’s time provided by the divine for me to work. Which is why, as we settled in Friday night, we decided to start The X-Files for the first time.