Columns | On Writing | Notes From Class

Writing Our Pandemic Stories: April & May

In this three-installment column, Chloe Caldwell and her 12-month essay generator students write about their daily life during the Covid-19 crisis

Haley Hamilton (Cambridge, MA)

I’ve always said I’m lucky to get paid to do two things I love: work in restaurants and write. Like Anne Lamott says in Bird by Bird: “It is one of the greatest feelings known to humans, the feeling of being the host, of hosting people, of being the person to whom they come for food and drink and company.” Being a good bartender is, for me, like crafting a good story: both say, Hi, friend. I see you, you are not alone.

That is why I’m so grateful for this year-long class right now. Don’t get me wrong, I’d be excited about and appreciative of the community, the feedback, the deadlines (I don’t get anything done without deadlines) regardless; but now that I can’t go to work and connect with people in person, now that none of us can pull up a seat at our favorite bar and meet friends or casually chat with nearby strangers, coming to the page and coming to class is quite frankly how I keep from losing my mind.

It’s no surprise much of my published writing revolves around the service industry, around hospitality and bar culture⁠—write what you know, they say⁠—but over the past eight weeks I’ve discovered that the flow has reversed: I’m seeing things in our writing workshops and on the page that I want to take back to work.

I’m no longer sure I want to “go back to the way things were.”

I miss my friends; I miss the rush of a Saturday night; I can’t wait to get back to that space, those places. But I don’t miss working 3 p.m.-3 a.m. I don’t miss having to say yes when I want to say no if I want to make any money. I don’t miss weighing whether speaking up for myself when someone is rude will cost me my job. I don’t miss watching people who want to order a drink invade the space of others sitting at the bar. I don’t miss management ignoring fire codes to get more bodies⁠—and therefore higher sales⁠—in the door.

Many of my fellow bartenders have joked that when we reopen we’re going to throw a party like America hasn’t seen since the repeal of Prohibition in 1933; a cause for glitter and champagne, hugs from co-workers, even the ones you thought you’d rather never see again. It’ll be both a thunderclap and a sigh of relief saying, We made it. We’re back.

This virus has shown us that no one is immune, that everyone requires patience and care. I hope that factors in when we talk about the “new normal.” I hope we talk about how we could all be better to each other in addition to face masks and social distancing being standard; about whether the handshake has slipped into the past. That would call for collective outpouring of joy.

I think that’s the only way we can really say, We made it. We’re back.

*

Courtney Kocak (Los Angeles, California)

I’d never been to the Antelope Valley Poppy Reserve, though I’ve seen it a million times on Instagram. So many versions of the same pic: influencers and regular Californians alike amidst a sea of orange desert flowers. I’d been saying for at least four of the past seven weeks of isolation that I want to take a road trip to the poppy fields as a lockdown treat.

It’s Friday, May 1st—otherwise known as May Day—but every day feels the same lately. Today is different, though. I actually leave home to produce a podcast session in Sherman Oaks . . . wearing a face mask, of course.

We wrap earlier than expected, and I rush home, which isn’t too hard given the light rush hour traffic.

When I get home to Highland Park, I am greeted by a boyfriend in completely different spirits than when I last saw him. There is an air of relief. “Our loan for Birdie was approved,” he says, a small grin breaking through the perma-scowl that has been forming on his face over the past two months.

It’s official: Today is the perfect day for poppies.

We herd our deaf boxer-pit Georgia into the backseat of the car. She spends the entire almost two-hour drive trying to sneak up to the front by putting her head on the center console and slowly nuzzling her way forward. It’s very cute, but there’s no practical endgame, so eventually, I have to push her to the backseat again. And again and again.

Aside from that, the jaunt is going well until Wade takes a wrong turn onto Highway CA-14. The stress is too much for our delicate systems to handle. He lodges into a tirade, “Did you know Seth Meyers had a bit on his late show where he compared people jogging without face masks to murderers?!”

“Can you get off at the next exit and turn around?” I say.

He screams, “I’m going to have a panic attack!”

After I direct him to the nearest exit, he says he wants to go back to L.A. “Fine,” I reply.

He changes his mind and takes the I-5 North—in the direction of the poppies, not the city of home-bound angels. He starts to lay in on another news item, and I ask for a moratorium on talking about anything pandemic-related for the rest of the trip. We’re still over an hour away.

We usually fit together nicely, but lately, we’ve been out of sync. Though neither of us has gotten sick, the virus has infected our daily lives and created a dissonance that’s beyond our control.

“Look at all that green!” I exclaim longingly, as we gaze out the window.

There’s an unexpected detour, so we’re racing to make it before magic hour is over.

At 7:07 p.m., we pull over and sprint toward the glowing orange field. We frolic with our dog and laugh and take pictures, and for fifteen minutes, it feels like B.C. (Before Corona.)

We get back in the car and head back to Los Angeles as the sun sinks under the horizon. And despite the moratorium, the virus sneaks into our conversations a handful of times before we finally make it home.

*

Elizabeth Teets (Portland, Oregon)

“My exposure is above average.” I feel like I keep saying this over and over. My mom and my Grammy want me to come visit them for Mother’s Day. Since they have both been isolated in their houses for over a month, they think it would be okay. I have to remind them my potential for carrying Covid-19 is high.

Since my job is considered essential, until recently I was still going to my work at a data center every day. Now, my company is terrified that we will all catch the virus at the same time, so we are split into two teams. We trade off weeks. One week in the office, one week at home. My customers range from terrified to completely nonchalant when they come in. Some of them wear masks and email thirteen times a day. Others are outraged when I ask them to respect the station that is in place as a barrier to maintain six feet of social distancing.

Luckily, my Sunday writing class is all women. I sign into our calls early, so I can bullshit with the other writers before we start. Little bits of organic lady-to-lady interaction I miss so much. It feels good to talk to people who I have common interests with.

Pretty soon our class will go on break, and my Sundays will be empty. It is possible I will go weeks without talking to a group of women so casually. Instead, I will have to think of something to say and then call or text.

My boyfriend and I cook dinner together every evening after work and go for a walk. It is the most time we have ever spent together⁠—usually, I’m running off to comedy gigs or drag shows. I would eat at the venue or in the car. As a queer woman, I feel a void I have never felt before. I miss other queer people. Being a bisexual woman dating a man has never been a problem for me, until now.

He doesn’t always get things I need, the people I surround myself to understand, and it’s not his fault. Things I can’t explain. Gay shit.

Dinner and a walk after work is so heteronormative. I don’t not enjoy it. It just makes me feel like we are a retired straight couple. I miss women, and I miss my best friend. I feel a loneliness I have never felt before. Can I see myself forever with a man? Yes, but not like this.

I would do anything to be drunk at a gay bar with a bunch of drag queens. I give money every week to queens via Venmo to make up for their lost tips. I make sure I donate to GoFundMes for my favorite gay bars both in Portland and Los Angeles. If this goes on much longer, I’m afraid there might not be any gay bars left to get drunk at.

*

Lindsay Meola (Santa Monica, CA)

I am locked up in a house as old as me. It shows its age worse than I: The ceiling leaks when it rains, the A/C is broken, the walls shake when the neighbor blasts his tunes.

The music coming from my house is made by my own fingertips as they dance across keyboards: telling stories of broken hearts, writing emails with empty hopes for happy Tuesdays, finding recipes to rework the boxes of Funfetti I’ve scooped off of the shelves.

Every meal is a rainbow.

I do all day, until I don’t. My legs are restless; my watch berates me: Your activity is usually farther along by now. I lace up my shoes and start to run.

Day 20, Mile 6: Is there anything sadder than a carnival with its lights off?

Day 21, Mile 3: I round the corner, a misstep, a misdirection, a miscommunication between my brain and my big toe. I hit the pavement before I even register that I am off balance. I jump up, walk it off, don’t check where I’m bleeding.

Day 23, Mile 4: My legs are shaking, my veins feel like a TV trying to erase the static.

Day 28, Mile 10: The rain was so heavy, it clouded my vision. I missed the street I was supposed to run back uphill on. I didn’t realize until I was running straight into the ticket booth at the Santa Monica Pier.

A man was in front of me just past Lincoln. He positioned himself barely enough away from a We’re still open for takeout! blackboard sign. His feet shuffled backwards quickly as his right leg roundhouse kicked, sending the sign soaring through the sky.

The wind whipped at the AirPods, drowning out my eardrums with lyrics instead of liquid. My eyes were fixated on the man as the space between us started to shorten. My left foot splashed, splattered, smacked into a puddle.

I knew even before his head snapped around: that leg was coming for me.

I picked up my pace, ready to launch my tired legs as high up into the air as I could. His airborne foot painted a semi-circle as I leapt, clearing his skin by an inch? A foot?

I was three blocks away before I peeked over my shoulder to make sure he was off my heels.

Day 30, Mile 5: I see a woman in the distance walking smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk. She is slender, dressed like a bee. Such a little woman taking up so much room.

Day 35, Mile 8: A car halts at a four-way stop, and it’s their right of way, but I know I can take it. I pick up my pace, and, predictably, hear the car honking and the driver shouting. I keep going, but I suddenly hear my name.

I pause. My eyes meet Lee behind the wheel of her car.

I run up to the window, and she says, “I was like, ‘who is this serious runner?’ And then I was like, ‘is that a Bacardi fucking fanny pack, that’s gotta be Meola’.”

I take my earbuds out.

I throw my head back and laugh.

God, it feels so good to stop.

*

If you would like to read the first installment of Pandemic Stories, you can read March & April here.