No Work

Tuesday, March 24, 10:20 A.M.

            I can’t not look at him. I can feel his disheveled desperation from across the street. But desperation is in the air everywhere. Every day when I walk, I can feel it. It’s a palpable veil of panic. People crossing the street to avoid each other. Social distancing. The 6-foot rule.

            I’m across the street now. From Disheveled Man. He pulls me with his stare. Standing at the end of his driveway, a quiet block on 35^th street. I stop, wave. He starts for me, into the street. I’m standing in the middle of 35^th street, but no cars. Everyone is sheltering in place.

            I back away. Not only because of social distancing but because of his intensity.

            He is dressed in an old ratty plaid bathrobe. Tied partly at his paunchy waist. His pajama pants legs hang down in dirty grey folds. He must be in his 60s? Maybe older? His scruffy olive green crocs shuffle toward me. His grey round balding head and beady eyes beckon me to come talk to him.

            Is he in trouble? Or just lonely? Or crazy?

            “Hello,” I begin.

            “NO WORK NO WORK NO WORK!” he barks at me.

            “Yeah,” I nod. “A lot of people are out of work now. I’m sorry.”

            “I work at Farmer’s Market. You go to Farmer’s Market?”

            “Sure, I….”

            “And I work, too, at La Loma. All Closed all closed all closed no work!”

            He takes a breath. Staring at me. Expecting what?

            “I watch BBC News. I have international antennae.” He comes too close to me. I back away. Social distancing is not in his wheelhouse.

            “Come see,” he commands, motioning me over to the right side of his house.

            I keep my distance, but follow him, parallel to the sidewalk, as he points at the roof of his house. “See there? There?”

            I nod, pretending I know what he’s talking about.

            “International antennae. The Prime Minister of Britain. He has It now!”

            “Really, wow,” I exclaim, shaking my head, not even sure who the current PM is.

            “Yes, it on BBC news. I get international news. No work,” he repeats, shaking his head, moving toward me again.

            I start to get nervous. I really don’t want to get too close to him. I feel bad for him. He’s so distressed. I mean, who isn’t? But at least I have work. At least I have clean clothes on.

            “You work?” he asks.

            Surprised, I nod, but still backing away. “Yes.” I make typing motions in the air. “Online. Teaching….I…”

            “No work,” he shakes his head again, staring at me.

            “I’m so sorry,” I say, feeling helpless. What can I do? What can any of us do?

            It’s a whole new paradigm. The paradigm of the pandemic.

            And no work is just the start of it….

            I wave goodbye. Leaving him standing at the end of his driveway, still staring at me. I cross back over to the other side of the street, hurrying up to Solano to make the right turn to continue my morning walk.

            I’m a little shaken up. But what can I do? I turn up 36^th St., march up the hill of the tree-lined street, the birds singing in the magnolias, the sun bright in the morning sky.