Zombie Foot!

            I can’t get the image out of my head. Immediately, as I hurry down 31^st street toward McBryde, the macabre takes over my imagination. What the hell is going on? Or went on?

            Okay, now that I’ve got your attention, let me try to describe what I actually saw. The rest is all pure speculation. We hope!

            It was a perfectly ordinary morning walk on Day 43 of Shelter in Place. I’m marching down 31^st street, trying to get my heart pumping, thinking how much I miss swimming, but trying to concentrate on the little beauties of the neighborhood. The pomegranate and tangerine poppies floating in the sea of green grasses. The big black crow, scooping up a prize piece of trash. The blue blue sky with the soft white clouds floating overhead.

            And then, I glance into someone’s front lawn. There are multiple dead cars in the driveway. One ancient silver Honda Civic is parked on the unkempt front lawn. I wouldn’t have even noticed it today except that Ian had mentioned it yesterday on our foray. “That car looks like it hasn’t been driven in a while.” I had nodded, not really responding, distracted by my hurry to keep moving. Crazy Cat Lady’s House is directly across the street. Later, I think, of course, what I saw today is across the street from CCLH!

            So, this morning,  I glance at the silver Honda parked at a slant on the front lawn. And see, propped up against the front passenger window….

            A BLOODY FOOT!

            I am not kidding you! The foot was attached to a bloody leg, most of which I couldn’t see. I saw the big white shin with gashes of bright red blood dripping? Or were they dried? Down the face of the shin. The foot itself was bare and big and at a strange angle. I mean, sure it could have been attached to a body lying on the front seat on his back.

            Or not!

            What if it was a piece of a dismembered body? A murder gone bad? The assailants running out of time to throw the body in the bay and so they’d just stuffed it in the car and fled.

            Or what if this was an injured person? Someone who, what? Had been mauled by a dog? Or cut by a Weed Wacker? Or knifed by an angry roommate?

            Or what!???

            I wasn’t gonna stop to investigate. No way Jose! I hurried on, my imagination just spinning. What if it was like that episode of the Good Girls when the women killed the Bad Guy and cut up the body cuz it wouldn't fit in the mini-fridge in the garage? Or what if it was a Zombie? Don’t Zombies have blood dripping all over them? Don’t they sleep during the day and come out at night? No, that’s vampires, Cj.

  

          Or even worse. What if it was some homeless person who was injured and in need of medical attention but because of the Coronavirus and his probable lack of health insurance, he’d just taken refuge in the Honda. Propped his leg up so that he wouldn’t ‘bleed out’—they’re always bleeding out on Blue Bloods!

        I don’t know. And there was nothing I could do,  was there? I don’t think so. No way was I going back there. I’m never walking down that block again. First Crazy Cat Lady. Now Zombie Foot!
            I just wish I could get the image out of my mind. I thought writing it down would help, but it’s still there.  Damn! 

I  really need to get back in the pool!  No way would I see such a sight in the pool! Shelter in Place! Please stop soon! Before I go stark, raving, mad!

Wild

“Got a wild tabby there?”

It’s an idyllic Saturday morning scene in the neighborhood. As I approached the wild gardened house on Clinton Street, I spied a woman bending over and pulling up plants. I assume these were weeds. I was going to cross the street, you know, social distancing, but then she rose, greens in hand, and strolled up the walkway to the house’s front porch. The house was one of those typical bay area numbers. In addition to the plethora of weeds and greens growing wild in the front yard, there were purple flowering vines and a miniature olive tree; the porch was painted a tidy white to the house’s pale grey.

            On the front porch sat another woman, I’m guessing her wife or partner, struggling to hold a large tabby cat in her lap. I know this cat. Izzy. I remember once stopping to pet Izzy and one of these women, I can’t remember which, it was a long time ago, warned me, “She seems nice at first”…We both watched as Izzy wound in and around my legs, begging for pets, “but watch out. She’ll turn on you in a second!” We’d both laughed. I had squatted down to pet Izzy, who showed no signs of attack. And then off I’d gone. Since then, I’ve been stopping to pet Izzy over the years on my neighborhood walks.

            But this morning. Izzy was not being allowed to come greet me? Or was her cat mom just being stubborn about holding her? Given what I knew about Izzy, I assumed that she was being held against her will. But why?

            Oh, of course, Social Distancing.  You can keep a dog away from people, just yank on his leash. But a cat? These animals, as we know, are more difficult to control. And, sure I could just be imagining all of this. That Izzy was just being ‘wild’. But a bigger part of me thought, she’s trying to keep the cat from running up to greet me like she has for years and years.

            And I think, damn, what has the world come to when you can’t even pet the neighborhood cats? The fear is so great that even these tiny beasts much be kept under our control.

            But they don’t like it!

            I’ve been watching Netflix’s Tiger King. Those Big Cats pace their enclosures, snarling and magnificent. And I think of Izzy. She’s not that far removed from her Big Cat ancestors.

            So today, when I continue walking, waving goodbye, her mom replies to my, “Got a Wild Tabby there?” with an entirely appropriate response:

            “CRAZY!!!” she booms out, laughing.

            I march on, down Clinton, yelling back, “Yeah, I’ve got one too.”

            And, it’s back home to my wild tabby, Clara. She’s inside only, so her social distance is easy. But if she were outside?

            There’d be no controlling her!  WILD!!!

            WILD!!!!!

Good Girl

Lady Bug Mask: handmade by KJ, swimmer

            “Where’s your mask?” Flamboyant Geezer barks at me as he lugs the big blue recycle bin out for pickup. Huh? I think to myself. What’s he talking about? I’m not in the pool. I don’t need my mask walking around the neighborhood.

            Or do I?

            It’s all so confusing. When all of this started, they said (who said? I dunno. The all-knowing all, all-commanding, THEY) we didn’t have to wear masks. That the virus wasn’t in the air. It was difficult to catch this way. I remember Ian and I at the store, a masked couple crouched down together selecting granola bars, our shaking our heads, my asking, “What’s up with the masks?” and Ian answering, “Obviously, they are uninformed. Or just paranoid. We don’t need masks.”

            And so we didn’t wear masks. At least not then. Now, I see everyone wearing them. Not just at the store. Is it a new edict? Have things gotten worse, not better?

            Yesterday, I had read an email to all faculty and students at FFU—masks must be worn to enter the building. Earlier today, I saw on the news a man being turned away from Whole Foods because he hadn’t donned a mask beforehand. But walking in my neighborhood? Is this really necessary? When I go for my 3-mile jaunt, I might see half a dozen others out walking. There’s plenty of room to cross the street, or hell, even walk in the middle of the street.

            Is the virus just floating in the air now? What’s the good of the 6 ft. social distancing if it’s this invisible and pervasive?

            I think THEY just don’t know that much about the transmission.  All they know is that people catch it from each other, from sneeze and cough droplets in the air, on surfaces. And, now? It’s floating around in the air on 32^nd street, Richmond?

            I keep marching past Flamboyant Geezer. Note that he does NOT have a mask on. Do you not need one to take the trash cans out? Do you not need one if you’re just standing on the curb bellowing at your neighbor across the street who also is not wearing a mask?

            Does the virus not reside in the bellowing?

            I have no clue. I just chuckle a little today, defending myself to him. “Do I really need to wear one now? I wore one when I went to Safeway last weekend.”

            He grins. Would have given me a Big Slap on the Back if it hadn’t been for Social Distancing, which thankfully,  he was observing.

            Today, he just guffaws. Then commends me, “Good Girl!”

            I shake my head. Okay, I won’t stop and reprimand him for the patronizing, sexist congratulations. Yet a part of me wants to punch him. Social Distancing prevents my impulse for violence. So,  I guess there are a few good things about the current protocols. 

            

Good Girl Reading

Not the Brightest Star

            “You know, I’m getting pretty tired of hearin’ my neighbors complain about wanting to get back to work.” Orange Bandana Mask Man and his Shephard mix have emerged from one of the well-groomed homes on Clinton Street. I see him every day on my walks. We nod, say hello, sometimes stop to chat. So today, with Ian in tow, I stopped to ask how he was doing.

            “They just are constantly harpin on it. I wanna get back to work. I need to get back to work. Work work work.” He shakes his head, clearly fed-up.

            Ian pipes in, “Well, maybe they need the work. Maybe they have bills to pay…” His voice trails off. He’s lost his job driving cab because of the Plague. Who knows when or if he’ll ever get back to it. I think back to “No Work” man whom I’d run into several weeks ago now. The agony and panic of his loss of work. The desperation of not having his income and not being able to control the environment around him. I think of my own situation. Just last week learning that my summer class only has one person enrolled.  No one wants to go to school in a Pandemic, esp if they have to take a flight from India or Uzbekistan. And, so, my boss had canceled the class. The Virus. It’s taken a toll on the economy and our livelihoods. Yet, Orange Bandana Man seems completely unsympathetic as he continues his rant. “I’m retired.  And I come out here and walk every day, hell, I do. It don’t make no difference to me. My wife….” He pauses for a moment, chuckles softly, “….she is good with savin money. We got 4 or 5 years left on the mortgage. That….” he nods toward the massive black jeep Cherokee parked on the street. “…is almost paid off.  All these years I wanted things and she said, no we need to save for our retirement and sure enough here we are and I’m glad I did without!”

            The dog lies down on the sidewalk. His walk postponed. “I don’t wanna go on and on…” he continues, going on, “but the Federal Government, it needs to do something. Trump, he needs to do something….”

            “I heard that the banks have come up with a mortgage deferment plan or forbearance?” I begin, trying to remember the details, but all I can remember is the punchline. “And the problem with this was that yeah, you could not pay your mortgage for 6 months, but then wham at the end of this 6 months, you’d have to pay it all back in one lump sum. That’s not gonna help!” I exclaim, pissed off at the stupidity of it all.

            Orange Bandana shakes his head, “Yeah, I’m not the brightest star in the sky, but even I know how you gonna get money back from people if they don’t have the money to begin with? It just don’t make any sense!”

            He shakes his head, clearly empathy growing now for the unemployed. What changed? Did our presence and our predicaments that we hadn’t really even shared with him come through? Is he more sensitive than he seems? Even if he isn’t the brightest star in the sky?

            Who knows, but there was a shift. A hatred of the Federal Government and Trump, perhaps?

            This could have been it. A common bond here with all citizens of Richmond. Trump is the reason for all the ills of the world. Why even the spread of the Virus. He didn’t get on it quick enough. He dismissed it as no worse than the flu. I’d read a story in the paper this morning of one woman’s harrowing survival of the Covid-19, “I don’t care what anyone says,” she narrates,  “it’s NOT like the flu. I was sick for days with a fever of …..”

            I’d stopped reading the article after a few paragraphs. Convinced of her argument. Glad that at least, I hadn’t contracted the Virus. At least not yet….And it’s this fear of the future, of the unknown, of how the Virus spreads and why and what to do to prevent it and the lack of testing etc etc etc that is beginning to take a toll on everyone. Carl Nolte, in his Sunday SF Chron column, had written about how when he was a kid, there was the invisible fear of a nuclear bomb being dropped on us, destroying civilization as we know it. And this, too, is invisible. We can’t see the Virus. We’re still out here walking and complaining. The birds are still singing and the kids are still screaming and it all seems so ‘normal’ and yet…it’s not…

            Now, the dog rises. Ready for his walk. Paces around in a circle. Sniffing the sidewalk. He’s been patient through all of this and it’s his time.

            Orange Bandana laughs, “Guess, Riley here is ready to go.”

            We wave goodbye. Riley leads the way. Ian continues the discussion. But right now, I just want to get home and lie down.

Crazy Cat Lady

            “CAN I HELP YOU WITH SOMETHING????!!!!” A crazed voice bellows out of an open window. The house is in a severe state of dilapidation. Paint peeling off decade’s old whitish siding. Tangled weeds growing in mighty clumps. A purple cat box filled with water smashes down green thistles on the unkempt lawn. Cats cower on the cluttered porch, hunkered down and wary. Black cats. Grey cats. Tabby cats. Cats and cats and cats. Somedays, when I walk by, there are just a couple of cats. Other days, there seem to be dozens of cats.

            And because of these cats, this is where the trouble started. As I walked by, I did the cluck cluck cluck cat call noise. Of course, the cats being feral and wild, instead of coming up to me, scurried away, hiding under the ancient grey pickup truck parked in the driveway. I guess the cat lady, behind the scary torn curtain, heard me—hence her demand.

            I didn’t answer her, but stood for a moment, transfixed.

            It was in this moment that she let out her tirade of venom. “STOP SCARING AWAY MY CATS!!!!” I shook my head, starting to walk on. No way did I scare away the cats. They were terrified to begin with. And who could blame them? Living with a bellowing Crazy Cat Lady?

            But she wasn’t finished. “GET OFF MY PROPERTY!!!!  BITCH!!!”  Wow, well, I never! And, I started to laugh to myself, just a little. I hadn’t been on her property in any way,  shape or form. Unless the sound of my voice carried over the property lines? And I was the bitch? Ummm…methinks the pot calls the kettle black? Is that how the saying goes?

            I hurry on, turn the corner at McBryde and think, damn. People are crazy! With this shelter in place, they’re just going bonkers all holed up in their homes binge watching Netflix’s Tiger King.

            Yet a part of me thinks, too, that someone like her is probably crazy all the time. That this pandemic shelter in place we’re in may not be changing her life much anyway. She probably sits in the house watching Judge Judy reruns all day, hollering at anyone who passes by. Tossing kibble out the window to starving cats who scurry to gobble it up before running back to hide.

            I turn down 30^th street, marching past the headless angel statue in the front yard and think to myself, when will this all end? When can our lives go back to ‘normal’? When will people see each other on the sidewalk walking, and instead of crossing the street and eyeing each other like the plague, we’ll stop and chat. Pet the dogs. Share rapture over sunsets.

            When will I be able to swim again instead of all this goddamn walking, which don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I can do it, but it’s just not the same as swimming.

            I head across Esmond, passing by the orange house with rap music blaring out an open window.

            A tabby cat head pokes out from behind the curtain. I stop. Do I dare?

            “Cluck cluck cluck….hi pretty tabby….”

            The cat grins. Honestly he does and I do too as I continue down the street humming a little tune.  

           

All the Time in the World

Puffed, I plop down on the curb at the top of Clinton Hill. Take in the view of Mt. Tam shrouded in misty fog, grey elephant clouds hover closer to home.

            See the couple toddle down the hill toward me. An elder man and his wife. I know they’re married. They look the same. Same round bodies. Same sturdy legs. Same yellow windbreakers. Same Pandemic face masks?

            This is new. Everyone, well not everyone, but many walkers now are donning these. They creep me out. As DL says, "They are the manifestation of all of our fears and anxieties." Plus, do we really need to be wearing them outside? When I might only run into half a dozen other walkers in 45 minutes? Is the Virus floating in the air where no one has been?

            I see this couple every day on my morning walks. They always wave to me. He does first, then she follows suit. Today he grins, and waves. “You okay?” he asks, amiably concerned.

            “Oh, yeah, just tired,” I holler. (They’re well beyond the 6-foot social distance rule)

“How are you two doing this morning?” I continue.

            Broadly he grins. I can see it underneath his mask. Or feel it. “We’ve got all the time in the world!” he proclaims, waving his arm broadly at the expansive grey horizon.

            “I should be working,” I respond, thinking how really, I should be. Papers to grade. Piano lessons to plan. Carpets to vacuum.

            I can tell he’s slightly perplexed. Isn’t everyone off work now? But they march on down 36^th street. I watch their yellow windbreaker flapping in the breeze.

            All the time in the world? Yet, do they? They must be in their 70s or even 80s. They certainly don’t have ALL the time in the world, right? Yet, because of the pandemic with everyone home, it must seem like there’s all the time in the world. Time has slowed down. It’s because folks are having to fill their time with activities that aren’t work. What are they doing?

            Walking? Well, a few are, but frankly, I don’t see that many out.

            Working from home? Yes, many are doing this, though many aren’t.

            Watching Netflix? Okay, but I never can find anything. It’s either too violent or too juvenile.

            So, all of that time…it’s there to spend, but yet…it’s also the most precious of commodities. You can never get it back. It zooms by. I feel as though I’m always chasing time. I never have enough time. Damn, there must be some good time quotes on Goodreads. Let me find one for you: “Time is the longest distance between two places.”

      Leave it to Tennessee Williams to stop me in my tracks. What does it mean? We have no places now. We’re all stopped in place. In our homes. In our neighborhoods. No one can go anyplace, let alone two places. If you think about it, what two places could he mean? The place that we are and the place we will be? Or the place we are now and the place we have been?

                I have no idea. All I do know is that time is of the essence. A cure or containment of this Virus must happen soon. Time is not on our side. It ravages and scorns us.

                What will become of us? Time will tell.

                I get up off the curb, begin my stomp back home. It’s time I got to work. That’s the place I need to go.

Sweeter

            “Don’t you think the air is sweeter?” Large man in grey tee-shirt calls out to me from across 33^rd Street as he prepares to drag in his trash cans.

            I stop walking, nod and smile, “Sure….” gazing up at the blue blue sky, feeling the brisk breeze on my face. He’s right: the air is sweet.

            “No cars!” he proclaims.

            “Oh…..”  I murmur. He’s not talking about the spring day, but about the current lack of traffic because of the shelter in place. And, he’s right. It’s dramatic. Yet this didn’t really hit me till a couple of weeks ago when I went to pick up my partner at the El Cerrito BART. It was 6 pm. I was traveling west on I-80. And, glancing across the divide, I marveled at how there was virtually NO traffic on the eastbound side of the highway. Usually, at this time of day, the cars would be thick with the bumper to bumper rush hour.

            On this day, the highway was eerily empty. And it hit me. This pandemic is real. People really are ‘sheltering in place’ by staying off the roads and in their houses. It was surreal. The Bay Area is notorious for its hellish traffic. And now? It’s evaporated. Gone. I couldn’t shake my feeling of wonder, but also dread. What does it all mean? When will it all end? What will become of us?

            This morning, though, back with Trash Can Man, he continues his rhapsodizing of the new traffic-free air. “Usually, there’d be all these cars racing up and down the street, but not anymore.” He grins, euphoric.

            “Yes,” I agree, hollering from across the street, “It’s better for the planet!”

            His enthusiasm positively leaps off his burly self as he pumps his beefy bicep, flexing up to a fist into the brisk spring air, “YEAH!!!!” he yells. “BETTER FOR THE PLANET!”

            I wave goodbye, walking on, the mocking bird trilling, the air suddenly filled with soft classical guitar. A musician sits on his front porch, strumming in musical bliss. I give him a thumbs up. He nods at me as he continues to play.

            The air really is sweeter. At least for today.

At Least We're Still Alive!

            A gray plush tabby darts in front of me, stopping to hunker down on the corner of a small patch of green lawn. Empty cat bowls line the walkway leading up to the yellow door, where a gray curly head pokes out from behind the screen door.

            “She’s over there,” I stop for a moment, pointing at the tabby

            Head poking out woman stares at me, startled? Confused? Was the tabby not hers? Is it not a girl? She looks like a girl. All small, cobby and plush.

            “Hellooooo!” A voice booms out from across 34^th  street. I’ve started walking on, albeit slowly. 

            “Ohhhhh! Hello,” she calls back, warmth and relief in her voice. Everyone is so starved for connection. Even if it’s just yelling at neighbors across the street. “How are you?” she hollers.

            “Oh….hangin’ in there,” he chuckles. I’m walking down the street now. Don’t see him but can hear his booming coronavirus neighborliness. “It sure is interesting, isn’t it?” he adds.

            “At least we’re still alive!” she proclaims, her voice suddenly louder, more confident.

            And as I turn the corner to head up Clinton, I think, has it really come to this? That we’re all just thankful to be alive? Why only a couple of weeks ago, I remember meeting Liv on one of my walks. We bemoaned the lack of the pool. (She’s a fellow swimmer.) “But at least I’ve gotten to pet lots of dogs!” she’d joked. Then a man strode by us on the sidewalk (we were standing in the middle of the street—social distance!) walking a beautiful golden retriever.  Liv announced to both of us, “See here’s a dog now. Does your dog like pets?” she asked. The man glared at her, pulling the dog closer, “NO!” he’d growled. “Oh,” Liv said, shaking her head. “Does he not like people?” The man pulled the dog toward him, away from us. “He likes people all right, but it’s not safe. You could pet him, then you could have the Virus and get it on the dog’s fur and then I would go home and pet the dog and get it.” Liv had laughed. “Are you serious?” 

         The man was gone by now, around the corner, marching down 31^st street. The dog obediently keeping his doggy social distance.

            The next day, I saw Liv again on my morning walk; she was picking up trash with her poker stick, rolling cart and bright flowered turquoise sun hat on.  We were careful to keep our social distance but I asked if she’d petted any dogs that morning.

            “Oh, not yet,” she chuckled.

            “Better be careful,” I’d warned, reminding her of the man and his dog of the afternoon before. 

            “What part of wash your hands when you get home did that guy not understand?” she harrumphed.

            We both laughed, parting ways to finish our morning walks. She waving goodbye, poking her stick into a wayward plastic bag on Garvin Street’s sidewalk; I headed up 34^th street to finish my walk before heading back into my shelter in place house.

            As I walk tonight, I think to myself, oh my. How much has changed. It’s all been too much too fast. To go from laughing at a man and his what we thought of as paranoia only a couple of weeks ago to being thankful that we’re alive is a dramatic state of affairs to say the least.

            Can you get the virus from petting a dog (or cat) that’s been touched by an infected person? I don’t really know. I could find out, but I don’t have the energy. It’s all so exhausting.

            So, tonight, as the sun sets and the mocking bird trills, and Cheeto, the cat who goes crunch, comes trotting up to me meowing meowing meowing, I’m just going to stop and pet him. After all, I’m still alive.