How to do the wrong thing right

Hell, I don’t know. Nobody does. How all this is gonna end. The only universal conclusion seems to be that whatever our new world order ends up looking like, it’ll bear little resemblance to the former “normal” as we knew it. The five stages of dying flew by in a mere five weeks, swiftly bypassing denial, anger, bargaining and depression to where we find ourselves standing today, astride the sixth week: acceptance. This week, for me, also marks the 20th anniversary of a very dear friend’s untimely, totally unexpected death. I’ve tried imagining what I’d say to Diane had she instead only been in a coma these past two decades, and just woken up. “Howard?” Diane might ask, blinking. “What day is it? Where are we? And why, exactly, are you wearing a biohazard mask? Am I contagious?”

“No, Di, but anyone else could very well be. A plague has been set loose. A global pandemic. We need to get you home and self-quarantined, quickly. Grab those rolls of toilet paper. Let’s hurry… where’s your smartphone?”

“My what? Howard, your hair’s gone gray at the temples! How long have I been… hibernating? Where’re Mom and Dad?”

“Sweetie, they died of old age a while back. You’ve been Rip Van Winkling it for 20 years!”

“Are you kidding me? Why, I must look old as you — where’s a mirror? What color’s my hair?”

“We’ve gotta find you a mask, Di. They’re obligatory now in Dallas County whenever outside your home… and gloves. You see any latex gloves layin’ around here?”

“Gloves, yes… look at my nails, they’re a Highland Park scandal! Howard, can we run by Neiman’s? I must be quite the fright.

And, Mr. Russell, you’ve got crow’s feet!”

“Sweetie, Neiman-Marcus is gone. They’re all gone: The salons, the spas, the malls, all the shops and restaurants. No need for you to dress to impress anymore. There are no social occasions. Social distancing eliminated all socializing. Everything’s gone.”

At this point, Diane drops back into her coma again, naturally (as anyone would), abandoning me to face our brave new world now of 20 years later all by myself.

Well, not completely by myself: Like most people across the globe these days, my neighbor across the hall finds herself working from home. At the risk of becoming too overly Lucy-and-Ethel gal-pal friendly, Tosh and I take turns cooking dinner for one another a few nights each week — though she, like me, hasn’t quite brought herself to don a mask and gloves in our own company at all times. Recently, however, I’ve noticed a creeping paranoia in the air. Our mutually shared housekeeper’s temperature now gets checked every time she enters the building. No residents may board our elevator anymore if somebody else is already on it. Everybody wears masks, even just to go down to their cars. I don’t know if I’m fearless or lazy. In any case, I possess but one CDC-grade mask to my name. They’re impossible to find. The only reason I have one at all is because my brother (who’s in the military) confiscated it from his base.

Meanwhile, I’m just trying to keep my head out of the fridge. Yet, somehow, I find myself involuntarily buying 20 lb. bags of rice, colossal cannisters of oatmeal and almond butter in bulk whenever I’m at Whole Foods… which is daily. It’s become my solitary source of entertainment. (Our Oracle L’Orange — the very same who postulated we all inject ourselves with Clorox to kill corona — turned me permanently off of television two years ago; The New York Times is plenty daily horror show enough, as it is. My neighbor, Tosh, was at least steadily dating someone local when the shit hit the fan. “Thank god, he’s good in bed,” she sighs, “‘cause fuck only knows what tomorrow’s gonna bring.”)

At a mere 40-ish, Tosh is the youngest resident in our building, by far. Constructed in 1965, we live in the hoariest of Turtle Creek’s high rises, and by “hoary” I mean an inordinate number of our tenants are orbiting centenarianism (although most don’t look a day over the building’s age itself—must be something in the water … or the surgical utensils). Tosh, her boyfriend and I try to make our three-musketeers-best of the situation here on Planet Earth: Doldrums’ Descent. My own husband is trapped up north. I’ve no idea when he’ll be able to make it home again. On the plus side, I nonetheless manage to stay in motion: I find myself doing a lot of zombified pruning and transplanting out on my L-shaped balcony: It’s starting to rival the Arboretum… or, rather, the Garden of Eden. I’ve overwatered lemon trees, oranges and olives, a fig, a persimmon and a pawpaw, all entwined by the sweetly succulent fragrance of star jasmine in full bloom. The air quality over downtown is so sparklingly clear now, sans any cars spewing their exhaust, that I can actually see Fort Worth from my railing for the first time in memory.

If only I could maintain myself so well as my garden grows. I desperately need a real mani-pedi. My gnawed nails have begun to resemble razor-wired vampire talons. Plus, I could certainly use a haircut (say nothing of a color “restoration”). Now that we’re entering our second full month of housebound/homecooked heaven, I’m noticing everyone could definitely stand a little professional grooming. And a gym. Three days a week, I meet my personal trainer on The Katy Trail to do yoga while standing 10 feet apart. That’s what it’s come to, people — yoga! In order to keep Travis from being forced to stand in line at the food pantry, I always bring him one of those reusable grocery bags stuffed with provisions — all his favorite organic, gluten-free, dairy-free, certified paleo, minimally-processed, non-GMO garbage that keeps his skin serenely aglow with the waxy corpse-pallor of any given health food store worker. (Travis still doesn’t quite grasp that there is no food anymore that hasn’t been genetically altered.)

In fact, now that I’m cooking again, I’m shocked at how extraordinarily much of all fresh produce (organic be damned) has followed the lead of the McDonald’s format, where the fish filet sandwich tastes exactly the same as the Big Mac, tastes exactly the same as the fries: It’s all McDonald’s flavored. Fresh fruits and vegetables from the greengrocer have achieved this same, non-individualized flavor feat: The hollow-thumping watermelons of February taste exactly the same as the perfect navel oranges of August, as do the blemish-free, Red Delicious apples of April. It’s all grocery store flavored: When everything’s always in season, nothing is.

Oh, and here’s one for the funny pages, my pets: In order to decrease foot-traffic on the apparently overly successful Katy Trail, the implementation of new traffic control measures have now been deemed necessary by Himmler (excuse me, Dallas Parks and Recreation, rather) whose latest Gestapo restrictions (terribly sorry, “alphabetical guidelines”) went into effect as of April 23. FYI, boiz, you’ll probably need to take notes, lest risk accidently betraying the Fatherland here, for this one’s a real keeper:
Everyone whose last name begins with the letters A to L is now permitted access to The Trail on Thursday and Saturdays, while Fridays and Sundays are given over, exclusively, to those whose last names fall in the M to Z range. Monday to Wednesday permits universal access, because, as everyone well knows, our sweet friend, Miss Rona, takes herself a long weekly holiday every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday… that lazy, infectious bitch! The Reichstag (again, my bad, city of Dallas) greatly appreciates your “voluntary compliance” in requesting that everyone please be vigilant of those in violation of the six-feet-apart social distancing decree. Be a good citizen, turn them in! It’s your civic duty: The life you save just may be your own!

On the serious side of alphabetized trail access — which, scientifically and health-wise, accomplishes absolutely nothing—the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has just added to the list of fever, shortness of breath and coughing six new COVID-19 symptoms to look out for: Chills, repeated shaking with chills, headache, sore throat, muscle pain and new loss of taste or smell. These symptoms may appear two to 14 days after exposure to the virus. Anyone having trouble breathing, suffering persistent chest pain, or blueish lips or face should contact their physician. The coronavirus has, to date, affected 3 million people worldwide, and killed more than a quarter million. There’s no evidence that coronavirus can’t reinfect people, so as with every contagion, get plenty of sleep, exercise, stay hydrated and isolated. This thing is gonna take years to climb out of — years! Mark my words! — and nothing’s going back to the same as it was before: Professional stadium sports is a dinosaur that glanced up just in time to see the asteroid appear in the Mesozoic sky. Ditto Hollywood movies, rock concerts and live shows. Nobody worth knowing is gonna be entering a theater to sit next to a stranger anytime soon. Small restaurants will also go extinct.

Prophesizing aside, if you’re in a city that’s seriously enforcing social distancing, self-quarantining and isolation — and I’m trying hard to think of a city that doesn’t — then, here are some very nice starter items to have on hand, all alone, in your “Gay Man’s Coronavirus Survival Kit:” Men’s multivitamins with enhanced male support; a case of Stoli; anal lube; any comfy dildo of choice; a vibrating butt plug (extra batteries!); a flashlight; sanitizing gel by the barrel; a penis pump, an automatic self-masturbator; assorted cock rings; and the sleaziest old porn mags you can find, because, after all, who knows how long the internet will hold out?

On the other hand, perhaps a coma is just the ticket. Fuck only knows what tomorrow’s gonna bring.

— Howard Lewis Russell

Send your comments or questions to AskHoward@dallasvoice.com.