Hunkered Down, June 2020 (Oelbracht)

The trees appear as silhouettes against the blue-black, pre-dawn sky. I settle into the loveseat in my “hunkering room,” a tiny 6' x13’ space for writing and meditation. The picture window reminds me the outside world exists, even as it separates me from it. I open the window’s side panel to the cat’s delight, and we allow the robins’ voices to lift us. In this space, there is artwork and sage and dozens of unread books. 

I boot up my laptop and wonder if, going forward, people will still refer to time in BC and AD, only now the letters will stand for Before Covid and After Deathcounts. In BC time, I would have been procrastinating about getting ready for work at this hour, but in AD time preparing to work no longer involves pants or make-up. The thought of putting on either in AD time makes me sad.

By 5:56 a.m.I log onto Zoom and start “Morning Muse for Writers,” a virtual place for me and literary friends to write. This early, friends seldom show up, but I hold space regardless. Even my muse fails to show - rat bastard. I have decided my muse is a pitiful drunk, and lazy. 

For me, most of the AD changes have been satisfying as soup. Commuting time has become writing time. Leftovers get eaten. Walks in the Metroparks with my daughter have become sacred. My daughter is a grown woman now, but unemployed due to “the Rona,” and back in her childhood bedroom. She used to make a living as an adventure travel guide, but in AD time, she just travels to the end of the treadmill and goes nowhere but Giant Eagle. Our respective anxieties about her future live in the quiet space between us.  

At 7:02 a.m., I end the Zoom meeting, put aside my creativity, and plod into my home office. This room is all of 10' x12'. I do the math, because I always do the math. In AD time, I spend roughly 14 hours a day in 200 square feet. I sign onto my work computer and turn the TV to CNBC for coverage of the crisis du jour.  The financial markets are schizophrenic, and clearly off their meds. My clients are nonprofits, many of whom will not survive in AD time. Still, I call a few clients to calm nerves. At 1:30 p.m., I realize that I need to retrieve a file from my BC office in downtown Cleveland.

I mask up and board the train. No more than two passengers get on or off at any of the stops. I get off at the Tower City station.

Tower City used to be called Terminal Tower until someone figured out how creepy that sounded. Today, the station does look terminal. It’s apocalyptically quiet. The backlit informational kiosks are devoid of any messages. I take an empty escalator out of the belly of the building up to street level and step outside, where pigeons far outnumber people. I go back into the Tower and head to the offices’ elevator bank.  I grab my paperwork and Clorox wipes, and go back to the retail section of the Tower. I notice that Susy’s Soup is open and, even though I’m not hungry, decide to support them by ordering a sandwich and quart of Chicken Noodle. The cashier wears a mask, but it’s pulled down below her nose. I sigh, and back away.

Some things have not changed in AD time. Back at the Puritas train station, a guy in ripped jeans rummages through the nearly empty trash cans on the platform. I hand him the bag from Susie’s, which he eyes suspiciously. “The food’s fresh. I haven’t touched it.” He seems unconvinced, and puts the bag down on the bench as he sits. He isn’t wearing a mask, nor were most passengers on the train.  Only the employed -- RTA staff, security guards, and cashiers -- were protected. I have four more masks at home.  

The last client call of the day ends at 6:42 p.m. It’s with a church looking to tap their endowment…again. AD donations are down, and community needs are rising. 

At dinner, my husband tells me that his brother is sicker, but refuses to go to the doctor. He has classic Rona symptoms, but no health insurance. When my immune-compromised husband checks on his brother, neither wears a mask.

I sleep on the loveseat in my hunkering room, with my artwork and sage and unread books.

Susan Oelbracht is the former President, and a current board member, of Literary Cleveland. She also helps facilitate Skyline Writers, one of the oldest writing critique groups in Ohio. Susan writes contemporary literary fiction, poetry, and essays. She has a Masters in Finance, and works for a regional bank.