We haven’t had cable since the nation went digital 12 years ago and our stolen boxes became worthless, sharply-pointed rectangles. For our corona shut-in entertainment, we alternate between old library DVD’s we couldn’t return, bootlegs, the radio, and VHS tapes on a box TV in the corner if we get bored on our phones.
Luckily, the giant flatscreen in the living room has a decent hookup to a digital converter with an antenna. We rarely miss America’s Governor and Mr. Mayor on the morning or nightly news. Their updates and constant press conferences, while helpful, usually sets my Pops down the conspiracy rabbit hole.
He gets a pretty pinched, angry look as he rants about the government illegally testing black men. A lifetime of not wanting to be a Tuskegee experiment has cemented an unending distrust for medical testing.
On the screen, the charts and graphs show the COVID-19 related deaths going up in black and brown neighborhoods across the city. It’s a little sardonic that a lack of testing is what everyone’s complaining of now.
“Nope. I’m never getting tested,” he spits. His building vehemence is a good indicator that it’s time to take a walk before he starts hyperventilating. We head out to the Dollar Tree on Lincoln Place a mile away, since it opens at 10 am.
Pops thinks the face coverings, combined with his big medical-grade shades and hoodie, makes him look more like a ninja and less like a stop-and-frisk suspect.
We leisurely walk up the hill on Utica Avenue, not because buses and dollar vans aren’t running, but it’s freeing to go in a straight line and not around in circles. It’s nice to remember we’re not hamsters or guinea pigs or prisoners. The skies are clear. The air’s cool. And, even though his face is covered, I can hear my dad smile more when he talks out here. A wrinkle or two of his closeted worry irons itself out.
The businesses that are open along the avenue have people lined up, single file, outside the doors. The closer we get to the parkway the more people there are shuffling around. Most covered, some not. On the curb, a woman sells fashionable face masks in army print or black at a folding table for a few bucks.
The Dollar Tree’s got bargain-based, off-brand cleaning products but at least they’re usually stocked. We’re at the point where we just buy the huge jugs of ammonia or bleach so we can gently mix it into the spray bottles and buckets with water at home. That’s for the surfaces. The vinegar’s to add to all the detergents for the towels, linens, and clothes.
The line takes forever. With some people spaced out, and the others impatiently creeping up on you, it’s hard to tell when the line is even moving.
Carrying all the stuff home on the walk back makes me feel like a woman in a village that spent all day getting water for the family. My dad, however, takes great joy in strong-arming as much as he can while he chatters away.
