Day 84

The world can be divided into two factions: those who have experienced the coronavirus first hand and those who have not. Those of us who have experienced it, those of us still living the nightmare, have developed a much different perspective on life in America these last three months that those who haven’t. We are grieving, we are angry, and we understand things differently than those who don’t have a clue what’s like to have a loved one killed by Covid. We are tinderboxes ready to explode at the least provocation. Piss us off and we will roar.

Today was hard. For breakfast, Mom suggested that we get bagels and then head over to the beach to eat. But it’s now (unofficial) summer, the in season for swimming, and so to park at the beach we needed a pass. Passes are easy enough to acquire if you are a resident with a driver’s licenses and registration that matches the address on a tax bill. But I am not a resident and my mother doesn’t drive. We had to appeal so that I could get a pass for my car. We walked up to the window at the beach office but as soon as Mom started to talk, the tears followed. I had to finished her words, the explanation of Dad’s death. The kids behind the counter were compassionate and sweet. They didn’t challenge us and they were very happy to help. Mom couldn’t fill out the application. She was crying and shaking too hard. So I filled it out, tears in my own eyes, because it should have been Dad filling it out. He should have been getting the pass for his car so that could spend another summer on the beach with his grandson.

With passes in hand, we walked over to the bench where Mom and Dad ate countless breakfasts together. Mom’s tears were endless, her bagel tasteless. “I miss your father,” she explained. “He loved sitting here. He enjoyed looking at the water. He got a dirty deal.” Will the pain ever end? 

After breakfast, we drove to Costco. When we finished shopping, Mom decided she wanted to add me to her membership. My son babysat the cart with all the food while we waited on the customer service line. As we waited, I glanced at Facebook and saw a post from a friend of mine, the friend whose father died of Covid last month. In the post, he explained that he had walked into a small local business to pick up breakfast for his mother. While he was in the store, two men started talking about how the virus was a hoax and they were pissed off because they wanted to be able to play gold. Their words were offensive and hurtful to my friend who know’s damn well it wasn’t a hoax. Anger surged, and he unleashed his fury on the men. As I read, tears streamed down my cheeks. Alarmed, Mom asked me what was wrong. I told her about what happened and she too was hurt that people could be so cruel, so insensitive. But she applauded my friend for sticking up for those of us who have suffered. Those of us who know the truth. What I don’t understand is, those men live in New York City. How could they think it was a hoax. I lived in NYC during the worst of it. The sirens were endless. The gravediggers worked all hours. Were the men blind and deaf or just stupid? Did they watch too much Fox News and neglect to look out their windows?

When it was our turn on line, Mom again started to explain what brought us there, but she couldn’t get passed the words, “My husband died of the Covid,” before sobs coked her. The woman behind the counter asked if I lived with my mother. I said yes. She asked if my license would prove it. I said no. But she looked at my mother, and something in her own eyes shifted, “Forget it, she said. I’ll add you anyway.” Another kind compassionate soul.

I was still reeling about my friend’s experience when — about two hours later — I stopped into McDonalds to pick up lunch for my son. The minute I walked in, an older man, maybe in his sixes, was shouting at the young woman behind the counter, “Fine, then I’ll piss on the building. If you’re not going to let me use the bathroom, I have to go somewhere. I’ll piss on the building. You think I’m kidding.” As he was ranting, his wife started to tear apart the caution tape blocking the way to the restroom. I turned to her and said, “What the hell are you doing? You were clearly told that the bathrooms are closed.” Her husband lost it. he stomped over to me so that he was inches from my face and told me to mind my own “fucking business.” The rules he told me were “bullshit” and he if he wanted to used the bathroom that was his “goddamn right.” Of course I argued back that the rules were in place for a reason, to keep him and everyone else safe from contracting the virus. He stormed that he didn’t see any virus and it was all stupid paranoia. I scoffed at him. That enraged him further, and he threatened to beat the shit out of me, adding, “I’m from Brooklyn where we take care of dykes like you.” So, I pulled out my phone with the intention of recording him and said, “Go for it.” He stepped towards me, threatened to spit on me, and then his wife grabbed his arm and dragged him out of McDonalds without their food. The young men and woman behind the counter apologized to me and thanked me. Seriously, they are young adults, making minimum wage. They don’t need to be harassed by assholes who are so blind by their sense of privilege they feel entitled to break the rules during a pandemic. If they needed to pee so desperately, skip the food and go straight home. I hate people. I’m still shaking from the experience.

I took my son to the beach this afternoon, but he didn’t want to be there. He complained that it was too crowded. People were sitting too close together. He couldn’t play catch. And “what’s the point of being here without Grandpa.” Yeah, it was one thing to go to the beach when it was empty to play baseball. But it was quite another to be there in a setting that reminds him of what he has lost. Being at Grandpa’s beach without Grandpa is like eating an ice cream sundae without ice cream.

After dinner, my son wanted to take the dogs for a walk on the beach so we drove over to the sound. When we arrived, the sky looked as if it was on fire, the horizon was orange, the sun slipping towards the water. My son led the dogs down to the sound but just before he got to the edge of the surf he turned toward me and remembered, “The last time I saw the sunset here I was with Grandpa.” Yep, the four of us were there last August. The sun blazed brilliantly then too as we watched it get swallowed by the sea.