Bill Hayes - How We Live Now: Scenes from the Pandemic

For Nancy Miller,

and in memory of Wendy Weil

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

How New York Breaks Your Heart

Insomniac City: New York, Oliver, and Me

The Anatomist: A True Story of Grays Anatomy

Sleep Demons: An Insomniacs Memoir

Five Quarts: A Personal and Natural History of Blood

CONTENTS

Of course, it was hard not to worry, everyone was worried, but it wouldnt do to panic, because, as Max pointed out to Quentin, there wasnt anything one could do except wait and hope, wait and start being careful, be careful and hope

Susan Sontag, from The Way We Live Now, 1986

It is one year ago, and I am walking up Hudson Street near where I live:

I cross paths with a beautifully dressed young man with a long, pitch-black beard, and I ask if I can take his picture. He demurs immediately.

But we go on chatting. He tells me hes a writer from Turkey, here to look for stories.

So, have you found any?

Yes, this is a story now, he replies, with a sideways glance.

I laugh. For me, too.

We shake hands and I tell him my name.

Im Yevgeny, he says, and begins walking ahead of me at a faster clip. Good day now.

Good day, Yevgeny.

Tango Dancers at the Pier

July 10, 2019

Now, I think about:

The last time I shook hands with a stranger.

The last time I saw people dancing.

The last time I saw people smiling.

The last time I heard kids playing.

The last time I saw traffic on Eighth Avenue.

The last time I went to the gym.

The last time I went swimming.

The last time I took the subway.

The last time I took a plane.

The last time I went to a movie.

The last time I went to a play.

The last time I made someone laugh.

The last time I made someone dinner.

The last time I kissed someone.

The last time I slept with someone.

The last time I fucked someone.

The last time I let someone fuck me.

The last time I shared a joint.

The last time I took a taxi.

The last time I took an Uber.

The last time I took a bus.

The last time I went to a restaurant.

The last time I went to brunch.

The last time I went to a grocery store without fear.

The last time I got a haircut.

The last time I got a drink at a bar.

The last time I took a bath with someone.

The last time I saw food carts on Fourteenth Street.

The last time I saw a crowded sidewalk.

The last time I saw people sitting on their stoops.

The last time I saw Ali at the smoke shop.

The last time I saw anyone in my family.

The last time I saw friends in person.

The last time I saw Hailey.

The last time I saw my therapist at his office.

The last time I heard cars honking.

The last time I shared an elevator without worrying.

The last time I went outside without a mask or gloves.

The last time I wasnt scared.

The last time I was as scared as this.

The last time I fell in love.

Eighth Avenue

December 10, 2019

It was Christmas, just last Christmasthe last time I fell in love. It was a temporary condition, true, but that doesnt make it any less real. I am and always have been a love-at-first-sight kind of human.

I had made a deliberate decision to approach the holidays this time not as the holidays which had made me blue for yearsbut just as work days. I had a project to keep me fully occupied, fortunately. I worked all day on Christmas and had no plans to go out. If someone had invited me to a Christmas dinner, say, I would have said no, no thank you. But by six, I was feeling restless and I decided to take a walk.

I wandered through the West Village, passed by a bar on Christopher Street, then, on second thought, turned around and went in to check it out. I was sure it would be emptysix thirty on Christmas night, come onbut it was not. There were lots of people there, mostly people like me, I guessed, which is to say people who dont dig the holidays or believe in Jesus and dont have family here or a menorah or a Christmas tree. To my relief, old-school disco, not Christmas music, was playing. I ordered a Corona and a shot of tequilamy way of celebrating a good days workand settled in on a barstool. I didnt plan to stay for long.

Sometime laterlets say another beer laterthe guy on the stool next to me talked me into playing a game of pool.

The last time I played pool I was in high school forty years ago, I warned him, but of course that was all the more reason for him to take me on. He beat me in what must have been record timeeven for that bar, not known for pool sharkswhich meant a round of drinks was on me. Thats when I spotted Jesse. He was leaning against the back wall. He was tall and muscular, but it was the Santa hat he wore with exactly the right amount of irony that caught my eye. Somehow it made him even handsomer. And then he smiled. Im a sucker for a gap-toothed smile, I just am. He held my gaze and just kept smiling this sexy, gap-toothed grin.

The bartender returned with the beers Id ordered. One for him, too, I said, gesturing at the tall young Black Santa with the irresistible lips. Whatever hes drinking, tell him its on me.

He came over and thanked me and asked if he could play pool, too. Teamswell do teams, he suggested.

You do not want me on your team, I said.

Yeah, I, uh, I picked up on that, he said.

He found another guy to be his pool partner and we played more games than I clearly remember. My guy and I lost each one, that I do know. Somewhere in there, maybe after someone had bought the first round of shots, Jesse and I exchanged phone numbers. The chemistry between us, with alcohol speeding up the process, was palpable. I remember thinking, This is the most fun Ive had on Christmas in I do not know how long .

But then things started to get fuzzy. I can drinkup to a pointbut the last thing I wanted was to get wasted. I decided I had to get myself back home while I still had my wits about me. So I split. I put my pool cue aside and, with no goodbyes, slipped out the door. It was only about nine thirty or ten. The fresh, cold air felt bracing, sobering. I was halfway home when I got a text:

What happened to you? Where are you? It was Jesse.

On my way home, time for bed, I texted.

There was no response for a couple blocks, then: Bed? This is where youre supposed to invite me over, he texted back.

Oh, right. Right . I did a quick calculation, weighing the pros and cons, and within a few seconds, What the hell, it is Christmas after all won the argument in my head. I texted him my address.

Those long legs of his got him to my place in half the time it had taken me. Id barely had time to brush my teeth when my doorbell rang: There was Jesse leaning against the door frame, still wearing his Santa hat and now with a string of Christmas lights around his neck.