On Sunday March 16th, 2020, I requested a short Uber ride to the North Hollywood Metro Station. If I had made more money the night before, I might have taken the expensive ride all the way to work in Santa Monica.
Bartending the night before, I spent most of the shift politely disagreeing with patrons about the severity of the Covid-19 pandemic. It seemed that the regular customers, and generous tippers, had the good sense to stay home. Aside from two medical doctors, who came in wearing masks and gloves, a majority of those I dealt with that night insisted that the virus was either a hoax or not a big deal. It only effects weak immune systems and the elderly they would say. Who cares if they die?
I have a weakened immune system.
Now, understand, I had been working in hospitality long enough that I have been groped, screamed at, openly or subtly mocked, and demeaned in countless ways. It had not all been bad, in fact, some of the experiences were rewarding and, honestly, I think enduring such disrespect was an important part of my development. Regardless, this treatment was new to me. I spent the entire evening hearing people tell me, indirectly, that if I died, it would not matter. Think of the economy!
Asthma is incurable and can vary in scope from person to person. Some have mild symptoms, and some can grow out of it. As a baby, I was hospitalized because I could not breathe and was held overnight. As a child, I remember countless nights wheezing, coughing, and hoping to make it through the night, fighting for every breath. Looking back, I feel privileged that my parents had health insurance because I do not know how I could have survived without it. The asthma and seasonal allergies took months to accurately diagnose, all the while I locked myself in the house and read every book that I could find.
I became obsessed, my dad noticed and started to give me things to read. It started with the Sunday comics, articles on sports teams, and books about religious or historical figures. It was a great passion, one that I may not have discovered if I was not trapped inside. One day, my dad brought me a biography of Theodore Roosevelt.
The great outdoors-man, Rough Rider, and president was bedridden from his asthma as a child. I was intrigued. His father, desperate, tried what he could to help his son. Wildly rich, his money had no effect on the disease. Eventually, he settled on a radical idea, rigorous exercise. Teddy trained hard and was able to keep his symptoms largely dormant. I was amazed.
My dad assigned my brother and I exercises to do every day. We were supposed to do sets of pushups, sit ups, and run up and down the stairs ten times. Eventually, I could play soccer again, but I was fearful. Every time I felt a sting in my lungs, I wondered, will it stop? Over the years, I was able to develop stronger lungs until I reached the point where I went weeks at a time without worrying about my breath. I became a decent athlete, not great, but I no longer feared exerting myself. With that said, at any moment an environmental trigger could set off the asthma symptoms, reminding me of the reality of the situation. No matter how hard I train or healthy I live, this disease can strike at any time.
I arrived at the North Hollywood Metro Station, mask-less. The public was still being told to save them for hospital staff. I had my only rescue inhaler in my pocket and it had less than four puffs left. I walked down the huge flight of stairs to the boarding station underneath. I tapped my metro card at the turnstile and ran down the stairs as I saw the train approach. I was happy that the car was mostly empty, and I lounged until I arrived at my stop. I transferred to the Blue Line and sat in the back row, where there were two seats instead of three. I thought that I was clever because I had noticed that people were less likely to sit next to you in these smaller seats. I was hoping that this car would stay nearly empty as well. It was a Sunday morning and there was a global pandemic, so it made sense. I felt lucky, I could relax for the forty-five minutes or so until I would arrive in Santa Monica.
I was wrong.
After several stops, a rail-thin man in his twenties entered and eyed the seat next to me. His hair was auburn and wild, his backpack tattered. Ignoring several completely empty rows of seating, he turned and dive-bombed, backpack first into the seat next to me. He had bumped into my ribs and, fortunate that he had a slight frame, had not caused much pain.
I was infuriated.
After several stops, the man hocked, spewing a half-dollar sized wad of spit halfway down the middle aisle of the train.
Horrified, I saw the pained expressions of the twenty people on both sides of the aisle. In unison, they looked down at the spit on the ground, then averted their gaze. We had all learned the same lesson that is universal to public transportation. Do not engage with crazy people.
I daydreamed of violence. This man was half my size and, surely, the other passengers would back me? I cooled, ignoring my worst instincts.
That was, until he attempted to nudge me to get more room in his seat. My considerable girthy-ness prevented him from having any ability to do so. He grew frustrated, trying to push harder. Calmly, I angled my right elbow so that every nudge would result in it driving further into his rib cage. I stared forward, acting as if I had no knowledge of his existence. After two more stops, he gave up and moved to one of the two seats on the opposite side of the aisle. They had been vacant the entire time.
Relieved, I sat in peace for the remainder of the trip. As I exited, the man followed me, and I wondered if there would be a confrontation. Eventually, he veered off and I walked the remaining mile to work.
Usually brunch was busy, and tips would be great, but this day was slow. The reality of a shutdown was closing in. After a couple hours, a co-worker told me that bars and restaurants would have to be restricted in some way in Los Angeles. We did not believe that it would apply to us.
That was the last day that I worked there.
Comments