Triple Ply Pandemic

It was day 146 when they finally journeyed outside into the still eerie air and desolate night. A Stygian blanket covered the sky, extinguishing stars and smothering clouds, and even the cicadas were in quarantine; not a single buzz was heard even in the dog day nights of August. Venturing down the once busy streets, the absence of ambient noises echoed in their ears; the wails of brushing winds from cars passing by and the sound of gravel scattering to the side of the road by whizzing tires still lingered. The patting from fleeting footsteps and the shrills of lively children loomed, reverberations of the past, reminders of simpler times and a new apocalyptic condition. David and Sean veered down a side street to avoid detection, realizing that open space made them susceptible to being seen. Sneaking down the alleyway, overly cognizant of their breath and amplified whispers; two mask-covered cousins with rolls of plush, luxurious triple-ply Charmin toilet paper tucked under their arms. The duo took furtive steps, ducking behind dumpsters and surveying the perimeter for patrolling police or anyone that could nab them for being out past curfew.

They had done their part to salvage humanity for the past 5 months, and just like troops storming Normandy beach, they answered their generations’ call for heroism by flouncing bathroom faucets to habitually wash their hands and sequester themselves indoors, plopping on couches to watch T.V. and dump countless hours into Instagram and Facebook, sharing updates on the Modelovirus. Like bombs raining on Pearl Harbor, waves of inertia poured on society, wrecking circadian rhythms and eliciting perennial anxiety and abjection. And maybe they had resorted to drinking their own urine a little too soon, but this was their WWII; their grandparents’ fight was with the Nazis, their battle was with boredom, and it became humanity’s duty to inform others of at-home workouts and convenient recipes to stay mobile and healthy, share recommendations for Netflix series to watch, and post updates with pertinent details of the virus and the progress of a vaccination. And while a docu-series on an eccentric, meth-induced zoo owner who owned illegal exotic animals captivated watchers for a short while, the necessity for constant stimulation intensified, requiring immediate participation. People developed inoculations for monotony by tagging others in push-up challenges and trivia questions; quizzes about which Disney character you were and what non-perishable item you identified as mitigated much of the pain of being alone. Baking banana bread also seemed to provide sustenance for malnourished social lives; sharing pictures of their finished products with coordinating Stay-at-home hashtags. Their only salvation was social media, making them feel connected to others in a time of isolation.

Once the societal construct of a work week collapsed, the significance of distinguishing weekends from weekdays followed, which eventually rendered the overall concept of days of the week fatuous. Most people lost their jobs, and once everyone’s psychological schedule warped, people plundered Wholesale clubs, collecting toilet paper in fear that as a society they’d be forced to wipe tender orifices with coarse material. Once the rolls were gone, toilet paper became the single most sought-after bartering item, and people were meeting up in all sorts of strange places to exchange, causing the virus to spread. Understandably, Modelo beer sales plummeted, even though there was no correlation between drinking the beer and contracting the virus, but nobody could have predicted Facebook Market rising as the powerhouse of trade during this outbreak, knocking the monopolizing Amazon off the top of consumer-driven dominance due to their inability to meet fulfillments. With the exponential increase in consumer demands, Prime could no longer provide same day shipping, and most orders couldn’t be fulfilled for weeks later due to delivery drivers being forced into quarantine. Fiat money became obsolete as soon as the elasticity of demand for soft tissue increased tenfold. 

Staying inside was no longer an option; Sean and David were doing this for their fallen family members. There were 5 of them when the quarantine began. David’s only brother Jake had been coddled his entire life, so it wasn’t surprising he was the first one to buckle, darting outside to cuddle the first person he saw, craving Oxytocin like a crackhead misses, well, you know, crack. And just like a man confined to a desert island turning to sea water to quench his thirst, Jake reached out and hugged the first person he saw, which happened to be an on-duty police officer; he was bagged on the spot and showered with Purell before he was taken away. Yeah, the only other person that stood less of a chance of surviving in this time of crowdless living was eponymous Waldo. Two weeks ago, Sean’s brother Chris had been picked up at a speakeasy where extroverted people congregated in groups of over 10 to chat and gossip. David and Sean had warned him that he was going to get caught with his escalating behavior, but his gregarious personality was not designed to endure a pandemic of this proportion; Chris didn’t have the temperament for social distancing. Sure enough, sanitation police raided the scene and discovered all sorts of peculiar handshakes being carried out by garrulous folks. They even confiscated the rustic Home Goods’ “Gather” sign that hung over their hang-out as propaganda. David’s Uncle Tom was the only other person left in the house besides cousins David and Sean, and he had been admitted to the hospital only a few days before, after testing positive for the Modelovirus, which at the enervated age of 65 was an assumed death sentence.

Approaching the bridge, David unraveled a layer of sumptuous material, admiring its feather-like feel and artisanal design; intricate debossed tracks ran along each absorbent sheet, stamped with miniature animated bears. Its distinctive weight exuded luxury; its thick cloth capable of resisting a swift contortion. Wrapping the tissue around his hand like a boxer preparing for a match, David wondered how many people were privileged enough to have experienced such a lavish substance in between their cheeks; how marvelous it was to wipe with a hand full of this lush paper; super soft, bibulous, providing a thorough clean with only one or two passes.

“Do you think we brought this on to ourselves?” Sean whispered, interrupting David’s muse. He had insisted he come along on the caper, despite Dave’s wishes; Sean’s Achilles’ heel was FOMO.

“What do you mean? How could we have brought this on to ourselves? David rebutted.

“I don’t know, like do you think maybe this was karma for like the universe and all of us?” Sean replied, proceeding in a slight crouch as if he were a ninja preparing for engagement, holding his arms out by his sides, elbows up in striking position with fists clenched.

“I’m not sure, I follow. Like maybe the cosmos are doing this on purpose? We’re being punished?” David posed, pulling on the dangling strings of his sweatshirt, drawing the hood tighter on his head. Looking down, he caught his reflection off a luminescent puddle; his blue mask pressed against his face, and his black hood pulled snug, resembling Sub-Zero from Mortal Kombat. He had been enticed by a retargeting ad on Instagram and wound up buying a couple of different styles to share with the boys; fashionable face masks became a lucrative business during national face covering mandates.

“I distinctively remember a few occasions when I didn’t share a Facebook post that asked me to     share with at least 10 friends. One specifically said if I didn’t do so, I would endure years of bad     luck. And quite honestly, I’ve been drinking from plastic straws for well over a decade now.”

“So, you think you brought this on?” David inquired with a cursory cadence, clutching his phone inside his front pouch pocket with both hands, making sure that when it did vibrate, he answered since it was on silent mode.

“I don’t think I am necessarily to blame for it, but I think I contributed. Imagine how many other people were tagged in a similar post and didn’t share. That’s like a shit load of bad luck,” Sean bleated, never not seizing a moment to brace himself for an oncoming attacker.

David’s phone buzzed against his belly. Retrieving it from his pocket, Dave inched the latex glove up on his right hand, pulling each fingertip off at a time, before yanking it off from his palm so he could unlock his phone. Unfortunately, no forward thinkers had contrived tech-friendly sanitized gloves, yet.

Be there in 5. Delete the message as soon as you read—-JuiceHead1’s text read.

Police were rumored to be monitoring Facebook Market conversations to catch anyone who was talking about meeting up, especially after curfew, surrounding conclaves and apprehending all individuals involved. David had only been chatting with JuiceHead1 since the morning and since they lived in different districts, they also had different “recreation” hours; the designated hour of the day that people were permitted to go outside and perambulate, soak in the vitamin D, as was recommended by the Surgeon General to help balance serotonin. So, the exchange had to occur when it was dark, which was way after curfew.

“Man, if I knew now how good we had it 6 months ago, I would have done things differently,” Sean lamented, shifting his brazen warrior approach to a more tentative stance with his arms crossed against his torso, leaning forward in a melancholic pose.

“Well, isn’t that the thing about life, you only realize the good old times until after they’re over?

“IDK,” Sean replied.

“Are you really speaking in acronyms now?” David smirked, shaking his head.

“Lol. I guess I’m just too conditioned to texting.”

“You think this stuff will really help Uncle Tom?” Sean broached, changing the subject. He adjusted his mask, fidgeting with the straps that tied around his head; an implicit indication of his nervousness.

“Yes. There was a thread on reddit about how Clen cured a few people in Florida.”

Clenbuterol was the full name of the beta2-agonist medication, and David was very familiar with it from when he used to juice back in the day. Known for its anabolic properties, the nefarious drug was technically a potent bronchodilator, prescribed by doctors to treat patients with breathing disorders. And even though David was being mendacious with Sean about reading that it had been successful in treating infected individuals, he knew that it was destined to work because it dilated bronchial muscles, making it easier to breathe, which is exactly what Uncle Tom needed while he battled a respiratory infection. David also knew that it was meant to work because life comes full circle, eventually, and all the years David spent injecting and ingesting illicit anabolic steroids for superfluous muscle mass and strength had to be for a reason.

“You don’t think thoughts and prayers are enough?” Sean quipped.

The wet stone of the brick-lined bridge reflected an uncanny illumination, a spooky aura, an augury for the upcoming trade. Layers of fine-grained granite providing passage stood abandoned; the busy viaduct people once crossed so they could travel, visit places and things, loved ones and friends, idled as an obsolete design. Countless little kids had traversed the bridge to go visit their grandmothers;  a sundry of bike rides had passed to go see the surrounding landscape. A symbol of hope and expansion was now just a derelict landmark to meet up for barter.

A silhouette awaited as Sean and David arrived at the bridge; a fellow hooded hoodlum with his hands in the front pocket of his sweatshirt.

“Ugh, I’m nervous, D,” Sean whined, slouching into a tenuous posture, revealing a wince as he pulled his face mask down.

“Dude, shut the fuck up and pull your mask up,” David ordered, shoving him with urgency, recalling how Sean was always the last kid picked in dodgeball when they were kids because he was too afraid of being pegged by a pliable rubber ball.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” the assumed JuiceHead1 bantered, emerging from the shadow, pushing his shoulders back, removing a rectangular box from his front pouch; the recognizable blue and white package David recalled ordering from Russian websites, which he’d receive in the mail 10-14 days after he sent $120 via Western Union to some fictional name that was provided.

Looking over to Sean, David nodded, and the two revealed their resplendent rolls; JuiceHead1’s eyes bulged at the sight of white rolled tissue paper. The stranger proceeded with an outstretched arm, dangling the package out in front; the soft glow from the faint streetlight provided enough illumination to notice the titular inscription in bold black letters. Adorned in similar attire, JuiceHead1’s blue hooded sweatshirt was pulled firm; his New York Yankee patterned facemask surfaced into the light. As both parties inched closer to make the swap, startling spotlights appeared on the trio, prompting David to drop the TP and snatch the Clen from JuiceHead1’s hand.

“FREEZE!”

Sean and David darted in the opposite direction of the intrusive beams; the tussling of JuiceHead1 being apprehended sounded behind them. Hastening across the grassy plains, the two looked over their shoulders, grinning at each other as the lights and sirens faded.

“STOP RIGHT THERE!” a lone flashlight demanded, drifting towards the pair from ahead; a shadowy figure approached behind the encroaching beam of light, pointing an unrecognizable implement in hand; an odd object, a shiny steel tool with a trigger and attached spray nozzle.

And maybe it was the pestiferous way Sean ate cereal every morning at breakfast; scratching the spoon against the bowl, slurping loudly as he drank the last of the milk. Or perhaps it was his obtrusive snoring, which disturbed David’s sleep almost every night; obnoxious gasps and respiratory vibrations rattled their adjacent bedroom walls. Maybe it was because Sean had kissed Amanda behind the bleachers in 9th grade and touched her butt, despite knowing that David had an enormous crush on her. It very well could have been the fear of uncertainty, not knowing the consequences of being caught, or perhaps it was something deeper, visceral, more metamorphic, like a regression to a primordial state, a resurgence of primitive instincts that caused David to grasp Sean by the arm, yank his Super Mario Brothers’ embellished mask off, and fling him into the commanding officer before taking off and escaping. A sacrifice to the gods; David knew it was kill or be killed and he would be better off without Sean; he had told him several fucking times to stay home.    

Sprinting with long strides, arms punching, David didn’t bother to look back, instead he clenched the box of Clen, imagining Uncle Tom recovering in only a couple days after taking a few tablets; he’d get released from the hospital to return home and they’d resume their nightly Chess matches as they drank the last of southern whiskey. He’d smile at him just like he used to; the same dimples and gap-toothed beam that shined in the backyard after David would hit a homerun off his change-up. David remembered how many times his uncle used to play catch with him as a kid, all hours of the evening. He would never say no; from curveballs to slap hitting, Uncle Tom taught him everything, and it was the happiest he remembered ever being; outside in the fading sunlight on a brisk afternoon; the moisture of late September cooling even the most vigorous of batting practices; the smell of freshly cut grass floating like natural inhalant electrolytes, providing an extra push to dive for tough catches. Memories that were enveloped in David’s brain like lifelines, reminding him in the darkest of times how it felt to truly feel alive.

David’s legs quaked as the lactic acid punched at his quads; his chest charred from burning lungs. Pushing forward to return home, his limbs pained but he persisted. Finally, approaching the block of his neighborhood, he smiled, realizing he had made it home, unscathed. He slowed up his pace to a jog, catching his breath as he approached the house; he needed to get to Uncle Tom first thing in the morning; he needed to thank him; he needed to save him. He wondered if police would be waiting for him but the only thing waiting for him was a red letter, pinned to the front of the door. Addressed only to the house number, a notice of deceased for his Uncle Tom from the hospital.