Alice Stays Home

Ch. ELEVEN Sit down chair, don't be afraid

            The city looks like a guitar stuffed with rags.

            I actually did it once. I pushed everything through the soundhole of the guitar: socks, t-shirts, a kitchen cloth, a top, things like that. It stopped playing. Heartbreaking.

            I'm going to a diner to meet Andrea for breakfast. Still no sky... No clouds, no colors, nothingness. A morning loaded with blanks.

            But the air is different today. As if someone had scraped off a crust and a brighter color had come out. A more intense smell. A sparkling light. But the sound of the streets is muffled.

            A guitar stuffed with rags, that's what it sounds like.

            This is not my town anymore. It doesn't feel like a town at all. Period.

            I feel like there's something going on and there's no turning back. Maybe that's okay. Nobody's got the right answers. But there is something I'm really scared of: not knowing if the things I've recently done were for the last time. You know, like, the time I came back from Disneyland - was it a real goodbye or just goodbye?

            I have this weird feeling. This virus is going to leave us with a lot of things we've done for the last time. And when I really think about it, I'm sorry it might actually turn out that way.

            I suddenly stop.

            A few feet away from me, there's an old lady stooping. She almost touches her knees with her chin. She comes out of a door that closes with a deep creaky sound. Then she drags a shopping bag with tinkling things inside.

            I check if I've seen well, and squint. Yes, she's got slippers on. (Did people use to go out like this in the street before?).

            She goes all the way to the big green recycling bin for glass. She moves more slowly than the snail of the Fairy with Turquoise Hair (and that's extreme). The hole where you push the bottles in isn't so high, but for someone that short and with such a bent spine, it definitely is a struggle. And yet she strives as she climbs on her crooked toes. An effort that almost moves me.

            I'd like to help her, but after a few steps I stop. She stares at me.

            A flash of fear sparkles in her eyes. Yes, of the kind that delves deep. Her gaze is a barrier. She smiles, indeed, but she keeps me at a distance.

            The contagion just materialized between us.

            Perhaps she fears the virus is lurking on my lips, on my hands, in my breath. Or maybe that's what I fear.

            She goes on to unload her bottles of tomato puree, jars of beans and jam... One at a time, with nerve-racking patience and painful thrusts.

            I leave her where she is and I feel even sadder.

            I arrive at Floyd the BARber without even realizing I've walked that far. My broken up thoughts blindfolded me and I left it to my body's memory to steer me to the usual place. It's an American-style diner where you can have pancakes that pretend to be as good as the originals, where waffles are always too soft and where knowing the difference between fresh-squeezed orange juice and just store bought juice is key.