In a Time of Covid
Bruce Bullen
“This virus thing is a big deal,” Cliff said. It was two in the morning, and the station was deserted. Cliff came from a small town and liked to talk. He worked at a car wash during the day but hung out at night with Hank because he liked the way the pumps looked under the LED canopy. “It started in China, they don’t know how stop it.”
“Is it like the flu?” Hank said.
“Worse. It tears you up inside. They put you on a machine in the hospital. Half the people don’t come out.” Cliff’s eyelids widened and froze, like he thought he’d said something real.
“How do you get it?”
“From other people.” They looked at each other.
“Maybe you shouldn’t come by for a while,” Hank said.
As he passed housing projects, shabby bars, and industrial buildings on his way home, Hank had to rest because his foot was acting up. As brief as it had been, the foundry job took a toll on his joints. But this foot problem was new, his toes were all swollen. Sammy was waiting outside the building, on the stoop.
“Yo, Mr. Hank. It’s payday, right? How about a piece of that fat check?” He was sitting with his friend Jerome. They were wearing wife-beaters, torn jeans, sneakers and sharing a joint. Their eyes seemed droopy, like they’d been up all night. Sammy’s uncle Esau lived in the building.
“You should get your own check,” Hank said.
“You mean like, punch in?” Sammy said, squinting through a burst of smoke.
“Excuse me.” Hank said. He tried to step between them, but Sammy stuck out his foot. “Ouch,” Hank said.
“Tender tootsies?” Sammy said. The boys' laughter lingered, as Hank went into the building. A resident with AIDS was making breakfast in the common kitchen and looking more emaciated than usual. Hank tried not to look at him and took the stairs a step at a time, his hand against the wall to keep the pressure off his foot. No one was supposed to know the man had AIDS, but everyone did. The French-Canadian painter in 2F had an opera blasting at top volume. Hank rapped on the door as he went by. “Turn it down!” he yelled. Laboring up to floor three, he unlocked the door to his room, and tried to lock it from the inside by twisting the little lever on the doorknob, but it seemed to stick. The room was small, with a window, a twin bed, a desk, a chair and a two-drawer dresser, but better than the room at the SRO run by the diocese. The social worker there wouldn’t leave you alone, and there were structured programs on weekdays. Harrow House was definitely a step up. No staff, and the residents kept to themselves.
It was barely eight, but the heat was oppressive. He opened the window and inserted a portable screen between the sash and sill. The window wasn’t big enough to hold an air conditioner, not that he could afford one. Sleep in the morning was hard to come by with all the street noise and sweating. He’d gained some weight. The doctor at the clinic said it was diet and sitting on his butt all night at the station. His A1C was high, whatever that was.
He took off the work shirt with Economy Gas printed on it, slipped out of his work shoes, and lay in bed in his undershirt, watching the morning news on a twenty-two inch TV he bought from the thrift store. It got two stations, and the picture was fuzzy.
“As cases continue to rise, everyone is being asked to stay at home,” an anchorwoman was saying. “If you must go out, wear a mask and stay six feet away from other people. Wash your hands frequently. If you feel sick, get tested. Quarantine for fourteen days if you test positive. Have food and supplies brought in or have friends and relatives shop for you. The virus is especially dangerous for people with underlying health conditions.”
What underlying conditions, he wondered? How could he not go out? There was a knock on the door.
“Mr. Hank, just a fiver.” It was Sammy.
“Go away.”
“You gotta help us, Mr. Hank. It’s like a loan.” The door swung open.
“I thought I locked that.”
“Guess the lock’s busted,” Sammy said. Behind him Jerome was grinning, dreadlocks hanging to his shoulders.
“I don’t have any money.”
“You look like you been eating good,” Sammy said. Hank sucked in his stomach.
“I get paid next week.”
“Come on, Mr. Hank, if you don’t help us out, we’ll have to keep busting in. Good luck with that lock.”
“Here,” Hank said, fishing in his pants pocket. He handed Sammy two quarters, three dimes, a nickel, and some pennies.
“No bills?”
“Not today.”
“We’ll be back,” Sammy said. “You can count on it.” He and Jerome left and went out to the hall, closing the door with exaggerated care.
Hank needed sleep but woke up sweating. The news lady’s warnings were trouble. What did she mean by quarantine? I have a job, I have to do laundry, buy groceries. Television people always like to scare you. He lay on his back in bed until it became uncomfortable. He got up, put on his shirt and shoes, went to the dresser, took out a few bills wrapped in a sock, and went out to the hall. The key made a click sound when he tried locking the door, and he was able to open it after thinking it was locked. Downstairs, Sammy and Jerome were gone.
The branch library had air conditioning and was open. He sat down at a table in the reading room and read a newspaper on a stick to cool off. The Governor wanted all non-essential businesses to close. Were gas stations non-essential, he wondered? He dozed off with his head on the table, until a staff person woke him up by shaking his shoulder.
“We’re closing,” she said. “Indefinitely. The virus.”
“Now?”
“Now.” She looked at him until he got up and watched him as he left. He bought Kraft macaroni and cheese, little hot dogs, and a can of corn at the 7-eleven on the next block. Miguel wore a mask over his mouth, but his nose was uncovered. Hank almost didn’t recognize him.
“Are you going to close?” Hank said.
“No, man. We’re essential. You need to get one of these,” he said, pointing to the mask.
“Where can I get one?”
“CVS. I ordered a bunch, but who knows.”
“You look like a burglar,” Hank said.
Most of the people on the sidewalk were wearing masks. It seemed funny to Hank but a little scary. Sammy and Jerome were sitting on the stoop when he got back. They noticed his bag.
“You been holding out on us, Mr. Hank?” Sammy said.
“I have to eat, boys.”
“So do we.”
“Then don’t spend your money on weed.”
Inside the room he went to the dresser, took out the sock, and looked for a better hiding place. There was a hole in the mattress under the sheet, and he was able to wedge the sock into it. Downstairs in the kitchen he boiled the macaroni, dumped in corn and the little hot dogs, ate it all, and drank two glasses of tap water.
The station was busy and seemed to be operating normally. Harold, his boss, was standing at the register, counting money.
“Will we have to close?” Hank asked.
“No, thank God, we’re essential,” Harold said. “I don’t know about nights. We’ll see.”
“We might close at night?”
“Maybe.”
“What about me?”
“We’ll see.” Harold looked at him. “You need a mask.”
“I’ll get one.”
Make one, if you have to.”
Harold left, and the station stayed busy all night. The customers said they were worried that gas stations might have to close. Hank watched them at the pumps and made change. The pumps looked blurry through the office window.
The heat was back in force in the morning, and Hank couldn’t sleep. His toes were tingly. He went out to find a mask and do his laundry, carrying his clothes in a paper grocery bag with handles. The sign on the library’s door said “Closed until further notice.” At the laundromat a sign instructed customers to wear masks inside and wait outside while the machines ran. Two elderly Asian women wearing masks were folding clothes. They looked at him with suspicion when he went in. He tossed his laundry into a machine, inserted the coins, and went to the 7-11.
“You need to get a mask,” Miguel said. “And don’t come every day. You’re supposed to shop once a week.”
“Your packages are too small.”
“Go to the market then.”
“I could, I guess. It’s air conditioned.”
He bought a large Coke, a can of beef stew, and a small package of Oreos. All the convenience stores and pharmacies were out of masks. A woman at CVS with large breasts and a name tag on her shirt said masks were on order. He went back to the laundromat, put his clothes in the dryer, waited on the sidewalk for the cycle to end, and stuffed the clothes into the grocery bag. Sammy was on the stoop, filing his nails with an emery board.
“Did you get the lock fixed?”
“You should be wearing a mask, Sammy. The virus.”
“Fuck the virus. I ain’t wearing no mask.”
“You can give it to people.”
“You gotta help us out, Mr. Hank. Otherwise we’ll have to visit more often.”
“Don’t,” Hank said. Sammy sniffed and went back to his filing.
He knocked on Antoine’s door to tell him about the lock but remembered that he resigned and a new super hadn’t been hired yet. In the room he pushed the dresser against the door and put his hand up to the window but couldn’t feel air moving. Rummaging in the dresser, he found an old tee shirt and used a paring knife to rip a piece to fit around his nose and mouth. The heat was suffocating, and he lay in bed, sweating. Before work he ate the beef stew and the Oreos with warm Coke. There was a refrigerator in the kitchen, but things had a way of disappearing.
Harold was leaning against the counter like a bank teller when Hank arrived at the office.
“You need to do something about that mask,” he said. “It doesn’t look professional.”
“Should I be calling unemployment?”
“We’ll see how it goes,” Harold said. Hank heard him say once that he didn’t think it was fair that employers had to pay for unemployment benefits.
Business was slow, and Hank sat on the stool in the office, opening and closing the register. He treasured these cool nights at the station and places that had air conditioning during the day, but the library and the malls, his usual stops, were closed. The Stop and Shop had air conditioning, but it was twelve blocks away, and the one-way aisles were confusing. Every few days he went to the 7-11 to avoid having to walk to Stop and Shop. His foot was still bothering him.
“Didn’t I tell you to shop once a week?” Miguel said.
“I can’t carry everything from Stop and Shop,” Hank said, embarrassed to say that the walk was too much for him.
“You might have Covid. You look beat.”
“I don’t think so, but thanks for noticing.”
He went back to his room, wondering if he had it. A sore on his arm wasn’t healing, and he was tired all the time. He didn’t think he had a fever but it was so humid it was hard to tell. He dozed and woke up to banging on the door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s us, Mr. Hank.” The dresser scraped the floor.
“Wait, don’t come in.”
“We need a loan.”
“Wait there. I’ll come out.” He pulled the sock from the hole in the mattress, removed a dollar bill, and replaced the sock. Pushing the dresser aside, he opened the door a crack. “Here,” he said, handing Sammy the bill.
“What’s that, a chest against the door?”
“The lock isn’t fixed yet.”
“Won’t work,” Sammy said with a two-finger salute.
His persistent cough made him think he should get tested. He dressed, gave Sammy time to leave, and went out to the street. It was mid-afternoon, the sun making the sidewalk shimmer. He was breathing hard by the time he reached the clinic, six blocks away. A note on the door said “Routine visits suspended until further notice. For medical emergencies or if experiencing Covid symptoms go to the emergency room.” The hospital was a mile away. He didn’t want to spend his money on the bus and wasn’t sure he had time to walk there, get tested, and return before it was time to go to work, so he went home. He sat on his bed in his underwear, alternately hot and cold, thinking he should eat something.
Harold was counting bills at the register.
“I couldn’t find a mask,” Hank said. Looking drawn, cheeks hollow, Harold took a breath.
“You won’t need one,” he said. “We’re closing nights.”
“Can’t I work days?”
“I’d have to lay someone off. I’ll let you know when we re-open.”
“I’ve been here a long time.”
“So have they.”
“I’ll need to file,” Hank said. Harold took an exaggerated breath.
“Do what you have to,” he said, closing the register drawer.
There was a nice breeze, but he was unable to sleep when he got home. He had a cough in the morning and felt hot and cold at the same time. He hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours but had little appetite. Sitting on the edge of the bed with the flip phone he bought from Cliff for $25, he tried to get through to the unemployment office. A recorded message kept telling him that the next available representative would take his call, but no one did. An automated voice broke in to say wait times were longer than usual and he should use the website. By the time he hung up it was late morning, and he was sweating freely. His forehead felt hot.
On the bus, wearing his homemade mask, he sat in back and watched the storefronts slide by. The street was eerily empty, but the emergency room was crowded. He waited in line at an information desk.
“Where can I get a Covid test?” he asked the elderly woman at the desk. Her pointy white mask made her look like an insect. She handed him a sheet of paper.
“Directions to the site,” she said without looking up.
“Will I need a prescription? The clinic is closed. Does it cost anything?”
“No prescription. It’s free. They’ll call you if it’s positive.”
“How long before I know?”
“Depends on how backed up the lab is.”
He took a bus to the sports facility being used as a temporary Covid testing site. It was miles away, and the bus was hot. He waited in a long line before being swabbed in both nostrils by a bored-looking nurse wearing a plastic shield over her face. The Q-tip felt like it was scraping his eyes. He showed the woman at the desk his driver’s license, gave his phone number, and took the long bus ride home.
He took a package of Ramen noodles down to the kitchen, ate a few bites, threw the rest in the garbage under the sink, went upstairs, and lay in bed watching sitcoms, feet throbbing.
For several days and nights--he wasn’t sure how many--he stayed in his room, eating little, sleeping fitfully, sweating, feeling exhausted. He called the unemployment office every day but couldn’t get through. Harold hadn’t called, nor had the testing people, which might be good news, but he wasn’t sure. He lost track of time. The room felt unfamiliar, and the walls seemed to pulsate. Hair was growing over his ears, all the barbershops were closed.
“Yo, Mr. Hank.” It was Sammy. The dresser scraped across the floor. Sammy and Jerome squeezed in and looked at him, lying in bed in his boxers and undershirt. “We need another installment.”
“I got laid off.”
“You don’t look too good, Mr. Hank. You been hitting the sauce?” Sammy said. Jerome snickered.
“Leave me alone. I don’t have any money for you.”
“We’ll just take a look,” Sammy said. “You stay comfortable.” They began pulling out dresser drawers and looking under the furniture.
“Stop that!” Hank said, propping himself on an elbow, but they went through the pockets of his clothes, checked the shelves in the closet, looked under the seat cushion of the chair, and pulled out the desk drawer. Sammy put his hands out the window to see if anything was on the sill. Jerome got down on his hands and knees and looked under the bed.
“He’s right,” he said. “There’s nothing here.”
“Don’t you get unemployment or something when you get laid off?” Sammy said.
“I’m trying to get through to them.”
“Let us know when your check comes,” Jerome said, grinning.
“We’ll be back,” Sammy said.
They pushed the dresser against the wall, went out, and left the door open. Hank was too tired to get up and close it.
He lay in bed for hours without eating, getting up only to fill a plastic jug with tap water in the kitchen. Falling in and out of sleep, he lost track of whether it was day or night. The room was like an oven, and sweat made the sheets slick. Sammy had dislodged the portable screen, and the window had fallen shut, but Hank was too fatigued to care. He felt dizzy, breathing heavily, his cough subsiding and returning.
“You won’t last a week,” Hank Sr. said when Hank told him he was thinking of moving to the city. The family lived in a small town outside the suburban ring, where Hank Sr.’s battered Tacoma with “Wilkins Odd Jobs” painted on the door was a familiar sight. Hank Sr. was proud to take any work he could get--trash hauling, grass cutting, window cleaning, painting, drywall, hanging curtains. No job too small, he liked to say. Hank began helping out after he graduated from high school but saw that the business was going nowhere. He worked for nothing half the time because there wasn’t enough money to go around. He feared that helping his father, living at home, and eating his mother’s food would be his future.
“Who’s going to hire you?” his father said. “You don’t know anybody. You’ve got no experience, no college.”
“You don’t make enough money for you and Mom.”
“Go ahead then,” his father said “Beat your head against the wall, but don’t come back.”
“He’s a boy, Hank,” his mother said.
He told Beverly about his decision to leave at the Taco Bell counter. It had to be where she couldn’t argue. She looked professional in her apron and her gray shirt.
“Chili cheese burrito?” she said.
“I’m moving to the city.”
“What? Why?”
“I need to find work.”
“What about us?”
“I’ll let you know when I find something and have a place to live.”
“You expect me to pick up and go?”
“They have Taco Bells there.”
“I’m going to be assistant manager here someday,” she said.
“We can’t live on what we make,” Hank said. Her lips tightened, and she adjusted her gray cap.
“There are people in line. We’ll talk later. Do you want a burrito or not?”
He packed his bag, and said goodbye to his mother. He and Beverly had a tearful parting on a bench in the park.
“I don’t know anyone there,” she said. “I’d have to start over.”
“Don’t you want to get away from this?”
“Sure, but…”
“When I have my feet on the ground, I’ll come back and get you.” She’ll change her mind, he thought.
After getting off the bus he read in a flyer at the station about a temp agency that was hiring. He worked a few weeks as a laborer at demolition sites and slept in a shelter before managing to find steady work at a foundry. It was loud, noisy work that required a lot of lifting but paid minimum wage and came with benefits and vacation days. He took a room at the YMCA.
When he went home to tell Beverly he was settled, she was adamant about staying.
“You want me to live in a room at the Y?”
“Only until we have enough for an apartment.”
“But I got a promotion. I’m head cashier now.”
Time passed, and he stopped going home. The foundry work was back-breaking, with little chance of promotion. After six months on the job he was laid off during a slow-down. He took a part-time job at the gas station. It was boring, and the pay barely enough for the room at the Y. The foundry called him back but after three months laid him off again. The station had a full-time opening pumping gas, so he took it, expecting to be called back by the foundry. He never was. He thought about going home but didn’t want his father to have the satisfaction. As the years passed, almost imperceptibly, he worked a succession of dead-end jobs but always ended up back at the station.
He didn’t know if he was asleep or awake and was having strange dreams. In her Taco Bell uniform, Beverly beckoned across a deep divide. What happened to her, he wondered? Did she make assistant manager? Did she have a family? A co-worker at the foundry was skimming slag from molten metal with a giant scoop, telling him to add more water to the sand and ram it harder into the flasks. The sand pile was mountainous, his shovel barely made a dent. Cliff kept coming to the station with no mask and coughing. When a car came, he ran outside, pumped gas at a self-service pump, and washed the windshield. Harold said that if he couldn’t keep Cliff from bothering customers he would lose his job. Dressed in his grimy work clothes, his father stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips, shaking his head. The truck’s outside, he said.
His breathing was becoming labored, and his skin felt dry. The room swirled, his feet and ankles were swollen. He thrashed around in sheets fouled by diarrhea. He vomited. The dreams went dark.
A nurse was adjusting ice packs under his armpits and sponging his chest. Above her mask her eyes were dark brown.
“We thought you’d never wake up,” she said. There were curtains around the bed and equipment on poles that gradually came into focus. Voices rose and fell and shoes scuffed outside the tent. There was an occasional shout.
“Where am I?” Hank said.
“You’re in the ER. We had to keep you here. The beds are full. Here.” She lifted his head and put a small paper cup to his lips. He took a sip of water and spit it out. “I know it’s hard,” she said, “but you need to hydrate.” He tried to get up but fell back.
“How did I get here?”
“By ambulance, I believe. People are coming in like crazy, so it’s hard to keep things straight. The doctor will know.” She wiped his forehead and face with a damp sponge. “If you can’t drink this we’ll need to use an IV.”
“When can I see the doctor?”
“There are two on duty now—they’re both residents. You should rest. We’ll take care of you. I’m sure one of the doctors will stop by…oh, here’s one now.”
A dark-skinned man in a white gown with a plastic shield over his face parted the curtains and entered the tent. He looked at his clipboard and at Hank.
“Mr. Hank, is it? I’m Doctor Saleh,” he said, cradling the clipboard to his chest.
“It’s Wilkins, Hank Wilkins.”
“I’m sorry. We weren’t able to find any identification. How are you feeling?”
“How did I get here?”
“Somebody called 911 and told the EMT your name was Mr. Hank. He said he went to check on you and found you in bed, unconscious. You’re lucky he stopped by. How do you feel?”
“How long do I have to stay here?” Doctor Saleh sat in a metal chair by the bed.
“Until you’re stable. Your condition could be serious. We may have to do a few x-rays to check your internal organs.”
“Please don’t put me on a machine,” Hank said. The doctor smiled.
“We won’t be putting you on any machines,” he said, looking at his clipboard. “At least not now. Do you have health problems we should know about? A primary care doctor?”
“I see Mrs. Malley at the Shawmut Street Clinic, but it’s closed.”
“We’ll let her know. Any health problems?”
“My feet are swollen, and I have a cough. Mrs. Malley said something about A-one…”
“C,” Doctor Saleh said, writing it on his clipboard. “How do you feel now?”
“Scared,” Hank said.
“Physically, I mean.”
“Hot and tired, and my head hurts.”
“It’s no wonder. The nurse will try to cool you down. We may have to immerse you. Has he been able to drink?” he said, looking at the nurse.
“Not really.”
“Give it a few more tries.” He put his hand on Hank’s forehead. “Take his temperature with a rectal thermometer.” He looked back at Hank. “I need you to do what the nurse says. I’ll come back to check on you.” He stood, patting Hank on the arm, and turned to leave.
“Doctor,” Hank said, almost too afraid to ask. “Do I have Covid?” Dr. Saleh smiled, his clipboard pressed against his chest.
“That, you do not have. Although you need to be careful. You may be diabetic. I’m afraid you have heat stroke.”
He stayed overnight in the E.R. and took a taxi home, leaving with instructions to stay cool, drink a lot of fluids, avoid caffeine and alcohol, and eat salty foods. His head was fuzzy, and had no money.
“I need to get the money from my room to pay you,” he told the driver once they were underway.
“You better not try to skip out on me,” the driver said. A placard on the back of the seat said he came from Cape Verde.
Sammy and Jerome were sitting on the stoop.
“Mr. Hank, we thought you were dead.”
“Luckily for you, I’m not,” he said and made them lean sideways, out of his way.
His room was a mess, drawers open, clothes on the floor. He lifted the stained, sour-smelling sheet over the hole in the mattress. The sock was still there. He removed enough to pay the fare, which left only a few dollars, put the sock in the pocket of his pants, went downstairs, and paid the driver.
“Where’d you hide it?” Sammy said.
“Thank you for calling 911,” Hank said.
“Least I can do for my loan officer.”
He went to the 7-11 to buy food with the few dollars he had left.
“I told you, wear a mask,” Miguel said.
“What’s saltier, pretzels or potato chips?”
“Check the bags.”
The chips were saltier, but the pretzels were more like food. He paid for a giant bag and carried it home, chewing on a pretzel shaped like a figure eight. Sammy and Jerome were gone. He worried they were searching his room and hurried upstairs, but there was nothing in his room he cared about. An opera was blasting behind the door of 2F. There was no one in his room. He pushed the dresser against the door, which made him feel better.
It was cooling off. He opened the window, felt the breeze, and straightened up his room, stuffing the sheet and some dirty clothes into the paper grocery bag with handles. He put on his homemade mask and went out to the laundromat. He had enough coins to run a load and on the sidewalk outside waited for the cycles to finish. Back in his room, he made the bed, charged his flip phone, and checked it for messages. Harold had called while he was in the hospital but hadn’t left a message. When he called back, the call went to voice mail. In the kitchen, he filled a glass with tap water, drank it, filled it again, and took it upstairs. As he waited for a call from Harold, he called the unemployment office but was put on hold. He sat on the edge of the bed with the phone to his ear, listening to elevator music and eating pretzels.
Bruce Bullen
“This virus thing is a big deal,” Cliff said. It was two in the morning, and the station was deserted. Cliff came from a small town and liked to talk. He worked at a car wash during the day but hung out at night with Hank because he liked the way the pumps looked under the LED canopy. “It started in China, they don’t know how stop it.”
“Is it like the flu?” Hank said.
“Worse. It tears you up inside. They put you on a machine in the hospital. Half the people don’t come out.” Cliff’s eyelids widened and froze, like he thought he’d said something real.
“How do you get it?”
“From other people.” They looked at each other.
“Maybe you shouldn’t come by for a while,” Hank said.
As he passed housing projects, shabby bars, and industrial buildings on his way home, Hank had to rest because his foot was acting up. As brief as it had been, the foundry job took a toll on his joints. But this foot problem was new, his toes were all swollen. Sammy was waiting outside the building, on the stoop.
“Yo, Mr. Hank. It’s payday, right? How about a piece of that fat check?” He was sitting with his friend Jerome. They were wearing wife-beaters, torn jeans, sneakers and sharing a joint. Their eyes seemed droopy, like they’d been up all night. Sammy’s uncle Esau lived in the building.
“You should get your own check,” Hank said.
“You mean like, punch in?” Sammy said, squinting through a burst of smoke.
“Excuse me.” Hank said. He tried to step between them, but Sammy stuck out his foot. “Ouch,” Hank said.
“Tender tootsies?” Sammy said. The boys' laughter lingered, as Hank went into the building. A resident with AIDS was making breakfast in the common kitchen and looking more emaciated than usual. Hank tried not to look at him and took the stairs a step at a time, his hand against the wall to keep the pressure off his foot. No one was supposed to know the man had AIDS, but everyone did. The French-Canadian painter in 2F had an opera blasting at top volume. Hank rapped on the door as he went by. “Turn it down!” he yelled. Laboring up to floor three, he unlocked the door to his room, and tried to lock it from the inside by twisting the little lever on the doorknob, but it seemed to stick. The room was small, with a window, a twin bed, a desk, a chair and a two-drawer dresser, but better than the room at the SRO run by the diocese. The social worker there wouldn’t leave you alone, and there were structured programs on weekdays. Harrow House was definitely a step up. No staff, and the residents kept to themselves.
It was barely eight, but the heat was oppressive. He opened the window and inserted a portable screen between the sash and sill. The window wasn’t big enough to hold an air conditioner, not that he could afford one. Sleep in the morning was hard to come by with all the street noise and sweating. He’d gained some weight. The doctor at the clinic said it was diet and sitting on his butt all night at the station. His A1C was high, whatever that was.
He took off the work shirt with Economy Gas printed on it, slipped out of his work shoes, and lay in bed in his undershirt, watching the morning news on a twenty-two inch TV he bought from the thrift store. It got two stations, and the picture was fuzzy.
“As cases continue to rise, everyone is being asked to stay at home,” an anchorwoman was saying. “If you must go out, wear a mask and stay six feet away from other people. Wash your hands frequently. If you feel sick, get tested. Quarantine for fourteen days if you test positive. Have food and supplies brought in or have friends and relatives shop for you. The virus is especially dangerous for people with underlying health conditions.”
What underlying conditions, he wondered? How could he not go out? There was a knock on the door.
“Mr. Hank, just a fiver.” It was Sammy.
“Go away.”
“You gotta help us, Mr. Hank. It’s like a loan.” The door swung open.
“I thought I locked that.”
“Guess the lock’s busted,” Sammy said. Behind him Jerome was grinning, dreadlocks hanging to his shoulders.
“I don’t have any money.”
“You look like you been eating good,” Sammy said. Hank sucked in his stomach.
“I get paid next week.”
“Come on, Mr. Hank, if you don’t help us out, we’ll have to keep busting in. Good luck with that lock.”
“Here,” Hank said, fishing in his pants pocket. He handed Sammy two quarters, three dimes, a nickel, and some pennies.
“No bills?”
“Not today.”
“We’ll be back,” Sammy said. “You can count on it.” He and Jerome left and went out to the hall, closing the door with exaggerated care.
Hank needed sleep but woke up sweating. The news lady’s warnings were trouble. What did she mean by quarantine? I have a job, I have to do laundry, buy groceries. Television people always like to scare you. He lay on his back in bed until it became uncomfortable. He got up, put on his shirt and shoes, went to the dresser, took out a few bills wrapped in a sock, and went out to the hall. The key made a click sound when he tried locking the door, and he was able to open it after thinking it was locked. Downstairs, Sammy and Jerome were gone.
The branch library had air conditioning and was open. He sat down at a table in the reading room and read a newspaper on a stick to cool off. The Governor wanted all non-essential businesses to close. Were gas stations non-essential, he wondered? He dozed off with his head on the table, until a staff person woke him up by shaking his shoulder.
“We’re closing,” she said. “Indefinitely. The virus.”
“Now?”
“Now.” She looked at him until he got up and watched him as he left. He bought Kraft macaroni and cheese, little hot dogs, and a can of corn at the 7-eleven on the next block. Miguel wore a mask over his mouth, but his nose was uncovered. Hank almost didn’t recognize him.
“Are you going to close?” Hank said.
“No, man. We’re essential. You need to get one of these,” he said, pointing to the mask.
“Where can I get one?”
“CVS. I ordered a bunch, but who knows.”
“You look like a burglar,” Hank said.
Most of the people on the sidewalk were wearing masks. It seemed funny to Hank but a little scary. Sammy and Jerome were sitting on the stoop when he got back. They noticed his bag.
“You been holding out on us, Mr. Hank?” Sammy said.
“I have to eat, boys.”
“So do we.”
“Then don’t spend your money on weed.”
Inside the room he went to the dresser, took out the sock, and looked for a better hiding place. There was a hole in the mattress under the sheet, and he was able to wedge the sock into it. Downstairs in the kitchen he boiled the macaroni, dumped in corn and the little hot dogs, ate it all, and drank two glasses of tap water.
The station was busy and seemed to be operating normally. Harold, his boss, was standing at the register, counting money.
“Will we have to close?” Hank asked.
“No, thank God, we’re essential,” Harold said. “I don’t know about nights. We’ll see.”
“We might close at night?”
“Maybe.”
“What about me?”
“We’ll see.” Harold looked at him. “You need a mask.”
“I’ll get one.”
Make one, if you have to.”
Harold left, and the station stayed busy all night. The customers said they were worried that gas stations might have to close. Hank watched them at the pumps and made change. The pumps looked blurry through the office window.
The heat was back in force in the morning, and Hank couldn’t sleep. His toes were tingly. He went out to find a mask and do his laundry, carrying his clothes in a paper grocery bag with handles. The sign on the library’s door said “Closed until further notice.” At the laundromat a sign instructed customers to wear masks inside and wait outside while the machines ran. Two elderly Asian women wearing masks were folding clothes. They looked at him with suspicion when he went in. He tossed his laundry into a machine, inserted the coins, and went to the 7-11.
“You need to get a mask,” Miguel said. “And don’t come every day. You’re supposed to shop once a week.”
“Your packages are too small.”
“Go to the market then.”
“I could, I guess. It’s air conditioned.”
He bought a large Coke, a can of beef stew, and a small package of Oreos. All the convenience stores and pharmacies were out of masks. A woman at CVS with large breasts and a name tag on her shirt said masks were on order. He went back to the laundromat, put his clothes in the dryer, waited on the sidewalk for the cycle to end, and stuffed the clothes into the grocery bag. Sammy was on the stoop, filing his nails with an emery board.
“Did you get the lock fixed?”
“You should be wearing a mask, Sammy. The virus.”
“Fuck the virus. I ain’t wearing no mask.”
“You can give it to people.”
“You gotta help us out, Mr. Hank. Otherwise we’ll have to visit more often.”
“Don’t,” Hank said. Sammy sniffed and went back to his filing.
He knocked on Antoine’s door to tell him about the lock but remembered that he resigned and a new super hadn’t been hired yet. In the room he pushed the dresser against the door and put his hand up to the window but couldn’t feel air moving. Rummaging in the dresser, he found an old tee shirt and used a paring knife to rip a piece to fit around his nose and mouth. The heat was suffocating, and he lay in bed, sweating. Before work he ate the beef stew and the Oreos with warm Coke. There was a refrigerator in the kitchen, but things had a way of disappearing.
Harold was leaning against the counter like a bank teller when Hank arrived at the office.
“You need to do something about that mask,” he said. “It doesn’t look professional.”
“Should I be calling unemployment?”
“We’ll see how it goes,” Harold said. Hank heard him say once that he didn’t think it was fair that employers had to pay for unemployment benefits.
Business was slow, and Hank sat on the stool in the office, opening and closing the register. He treasured these cool nights at the station and places that had air conditioning during the day, but the library and the malls, his usual stops, were closed. The Stop and Shop had air conditioning, but it was twelve blocks away, and the one-way aisles were confusing. Every few days he went to the 7-11 to avoid having to walk to Stop and Shop. His foot was still bothering him.
“Didn’t I tell you to shop once a week?” Miguel said.
“I can’t carry everything from Stop and Shop,” Hank said, embarrassed to say that the walk was too much for him.
“You might have Covid. You look beat.”
“I don’t think so, but thanks for noticing.”
He went back to his room, wondering if he had it. A sore on his arm wasn’t healing, and he was tired all the time. He didn’t think he had a fever but it was so humid it was hard to tell. He dozed and woke up to banging on the door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s us, Mr. Hank.” The dresser scraped the floor.
“Wait, don’t come in.”
“We need a loan.”
“Wait there. I’ll come out.” He pulled the sock from the hole in the mattress, removed a dollar bill, and replaced the sock. Pushing the dresser aside, he opened the door a crack. “Here,” he said, handing Sammy the bill.
“What’s that, a chest against the door?”
“The lock isn’t fixed yet.”
“Won’t work,” Sammy said with a two-finger salute.
His persistent cough made him think he should get tested. He dressed, gave Sammy time to leave, and went out to the street. It was mid-afternoon, the sun making the sidewalk shimmer. He was breathing hard by the time he reached the clinic, six blocks away. A note on the door said “Routine visits suspended until further notice. For medical emergencies or if experiencing Covid symptoms go to the emergency room.” The hospital was a mile away. He didn’t want to spend his money on the bus and wasn’t sure he had time to walk there, get tested, and return before it was time to go to work, so he went home. He sat on his bed in his underwear, alternately hot and cold, thinking he should eat something.
Harold was counting bills at the register.
“I couldn’t find a mask,” Hank said. Looking drawn, cheeks hollow, Harold took a breath.
“You won’t need one,” he said. “We’re closing nights.”
“Can’t I work days?”
“I’d have to lay someone off. I’ll let you know when we re-open.”
“I’ve been here a long time.”
“So have they.”
“I’ll need to file,” Hank said. Harold took an exaggerated breath.
“Do what you have to,” he said, closing the register drawer.
There was a nice breeze, but he was unable to sleep when he got home. He had a cough in the morning and felt hot and cold at the same time. He hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours but had little appetite. Sitting on the edge of the bed with the flip phone he bought from Cliff for $25, he tried to get through to the unemployment office. A recorded message kept telling him that the next available representative would take his call, but no one did. An automated voice broke in to say wait times were longer than usual and he should use the website. By the time he hung up it was late morning, and he was sweating freely. His forehead felt hot.
On the bus, wearing his homemade mask, he sat in back and watched the storefronts slide by. The street was eerily empty, but the emergency room was crowded. He waited in line at an information desk.
“Where can I get a Covid test?” he asked the elderly woman at the desk. Her pointy white mask made her look like an insect. She handed him a sheet of paper.
“Directions to the site,” she said without looking up.
“Will I need a prescription? The clinic is closed. Does it cost anything?”
“No prescription. It’s free. They’ll call you if it’s positive.”
“How long before I know?”
“Depends on how backed up the lab is.”
He took a bus to the sports facility being used as a temporary Covid testing site. It was miles away, and the bus was hot. He waited in a long line before being swabbed in both nostrils by a bored-looking nurse wearing a plastic shield over her face. The Q-tip felt like it was scraping his eyes. He showed the woman at the desk his driver’s license, gave his phone number, and took the long bus ride home.
He took a package of Ramen noodles down to the kitchen, ate a few bites, threw the rest in the garbage under the sink, went upstairs, and lay in bed watching sitcoms, feet throbbing.
For several days and nights--he wasn’t sure how many--he stayed in his room, eating little, sleeping fitfully, sweating, feeling exhausted. He called the unemployment office every day but couldn’t get through. Harold hadn’t called, nor had the testing people, which might be good news, but he wasn’t sure. He lost track of time. The room felt unfamiliar, and the walls seemed to pulsate. Hair was growing over his ears, all the barbershops were closed.
“Yo, Mr. Hank.” It was Sammy. The dresser scraped across the floor. Sammy and Jerome squeezed in and looked at him, lying in bed in his boxers and undershirt. “We need another installment.”
“I got laid off.”
“You don’t look too good, Mr. Hank. You been hitting the sauce?” Sammy said. Jerome snickered.
“Leave me alone. I don’t have any money for you.”
“We’ll just take a look,” Sammy said. “You stay comfortable.” They began pulling out dresser drawers and looking under the furniture.
“Stop that!” Hank said, propping himself on an elbow, but they went through the pockets of his clothes, checked the shelves in the closet, looked under the seat cushion of the chair, and pulled out the desk drawer. Sammy put his hands out the window to see if anything was on the sill. Jerome got down on his hands and knees and looked under the bed.
“He’s right,” he said. “There’s nothing here.”
“Don’t you get unemployment or something when you get laid off?” Sammy said.
“I’m trying to get through to them.”
“Let us know when your check comes,” Jerome said, grinning.
“We’ll be back,” Sammy said.
They pushed the dresser against the wall, went out, and left the door open. Hank was too tired to get up and close it.
He lay in bed for hours without eating, getting up only to fill a plastic jug with tap water in the kitchen. Falling in and out of sleep, he lost track of whether it was day or night. The room was like an oven, and sweat made the sheets slick. Sammy had dislodged the portable screen, and the window had fallen shut, but Hank was too fatigued to care. He felt dizzy, breathing heavily, his cough subsiding and returning.
“You won’t last a week,” Hank Sr. said when Hank told him he was thinking of moving to the city. The family lived in a small town outside the suburban ring, where Hank Sr.’s battered Tacoma with “Wilkins Odd Jobs” painted on the door was a familiar sight. Hank Sr. was proud to take any work he could get--trash hauling, grass cutting, window cleaning, painting, drywall, hanging curtains. No job too small, he liked to say. Hank began helping out after he graduated from high school but saw that the business was going nowhere. He worked for nothing half the time because there wasn’t enough money to go around. He feared that helping his father, living at home, and eating his mother’s food would be his future.
“Who’s going to hire you?” his father said. “You don’t know anybody. You’ve got no experience, no college.”
“You don’t make enough money for you and Mom.”
“Go ahead then,” his father said “Beat your head against the wall, but don’t come back.”
“He’s a boy, Hank,” his mother said.
He told Beverly about his decision to leave at the Taco Bell counter. It had to be where she couldn’t argue. She looked professional in her apron and her gray shirt.
“Chili cheese burrito?” she said.
“I’m moving to the city.”
“What? Why?”
“I need to find work.”
“What about us?”
“I’ll let you know when I find something and have a place to live.”
“You expect me to pick up and go?”
“They have Taco Bells there.”
“I’m going to be assistant manager here someday,” she said.
“We can’t live on what we make,” Hank said. Her lips tightened, and she adjusted her gray cap.
“There are people in line. We’ll talk later. Do you want a burrito or not?”
He packed his bag, and said goodbye to his mother. He and Beverly had a tearful parting on a bench in the park.
“I don’t know anyone there,” she said. “I’d have to start over.”
“Don’t you want to get away from this?”
“Sure, but…”
“When I have my feet on the ground, I’ll come back and get you.” She’ll change her mind, he thought.
After getting off the bus he read in a flyer at the station about a temp agency that was hiring. He worked a few weeks as a laborer at demolition sites and slept in a shelter before managing to find steady work at a foundry. It was loud, noisy work that required a lot of lifting but paid minimum wage and came with benefits and vacation days. He took a room at the YMCA.
When he went home to tell Beverly he was settled, she was adamant about staying.
“You want me to live in a room at the Y?”
“Only until we have enough for an apartment.”
“But I got a promotion. I’m head cashier now.”
Time passed, and he stopped going home. The foundry work was back-breaking, with little chance of promotion. After six months on the job he was laid off during a slow-down. He took a part-time job at the gas station. It was boring, and the pay barely enough for the room at the Y. The foundry called him back but after three months laid him off again. The station had a full-time opening pumping gas, so he took it, expecting to be called back by the foundry. He never was. He thought about going home but didn’t want his father to have the satisfaction. As the years passed, almost imperceptibly, he worked a succession of dead-end jobs but always ended up back at the station.
He didn’t know if he was asleep or awake and was having strange dreams. In her Taco Bell uniform, Beverly beckoned across a deep divide. What happened to her, he wondered? Did she make assistant manager? Did she have a family? A co-worker at the foundry was skimming slag from molten metal with a giant scoop, telling him to add more water to the sand and ram it harder into the flasks. The sand pile was mountainous, his shovel barely made a dent. Cliff kept coming to the station with no mask and coughing. When a car came, he ran outside, pumped gas at a self-service pump, and washed the windshield. Harold said that if he couldn’t keep Cliff from bothering customers he would lose his job. Dressed in his grimy work clothes, his father stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips, shaking his head. The truck’s outside, he said.
His breathing was becoming labored, and his skin felt dry. The room swirled, his feet and ankles were swollen. He thrashed around in sheets fouled by diarrhea. He vomited. The dreams went dark.
A nurse was adjusting ice packs under his armpits and sponging his chest. Above her mask her eyes were dark brown.
“We thought you’d never wake up,” she said. There were curtains around the bed and equipment on poles that gradually came into focus. Voices rose and fell and shoes scuffed outside the tent. There was an occasional shout.
“Where am I?” Hank said.
“You’re in the ER. We had to keep you here. The beds are full. Here.” She lifted his head and put a small paper cup to his lips. He took a sip of water and spit it out. “I know it’s hard,” she said, “but you need to hydrate.” He tried to get up but fell back.
“How did I get here?”
“By ambulance, I believe. People are coming in like crazy, so it’s hard to keep things straight. The doctor will know.” She wiped his forehead and face with a damp sponge. “If you can’t drink this we’ll need to use an IV.”
“When can I see the doctor?”
“There are two on duty now—they’re both residents. You should rest. We’ll take care of you. I’m sure one of the doctors will stop by…oh, here’s one now.”
A dark-skinned man in a white gown with a plastic shield over his face parted the curtains and entered the tent. He looked at his clipboard and at Hank.
“Mr. Hank, is it? I’m Doctor Saleh,” he said, cradling the clipboard to his chest.
“It’s Wilkins, Hank Wilkins.”
“I’m sorry. We weren’t able to find any identification. How are you feeling?”
“How did I get here?”
“Somebody called 911 and told the EMT your name was Mr. Hank. He said he went to check on you and found you in bed, unconscious. You’re lucky he stopped by. How do you feel?”
“How long do I have to stay here?” Doctor Saleh sat in a metal chair by the bed.
“Until you’re stable. Your condition could be serious. We may have to do a few x-rays to check your internal organs.”
“Please don’t put me on a machine,” Hank said. The doctor smiled.
“We won’t be putting you on any machines,” he said, looking at his clipboard. “At least not now. Do you have health problems we should know about? A primary care doctor?”
“I see Mrs. Malley at the Shawmut Street Clinic, but it’s closed.”
“We’ll let her know. Any health problems?”
“My feet are swollen, and I have a cough. Mrs. Malley said something about A-one…”
“C,” Doctor Saleh said, writing it on his clipboard. “How do you feel now?”
“Scared,” Hank said.
“Physically, I mean.”
“Hot and tired, and my head hurts.”
“It’s no wonder. The nurse will try to cool you down. We may have to immerse you. Has he been able to drink?” he said, looking at the nurse.
“Not really.”
“Give it a few more tries.” He put his hand on Hank’s forehead. “Take his temperature with a rectal thermometer.” He looked back at Hank. “I need you to do what the nurse says. I’ll come back to check on you.” He stood, patting Hank on the arm, and turned to leave.
“Doctor,” Hank said, almost too afraid to ask. “Do I have Covid?” Dr. Saleh smiled, his clipboard pressed against his chest.
“That, you do not have. Although you need to be careful. You may be diabetic. I’m afraid you have heat stroke.”
He stayed overnight in the E.R. and took a taxi home, leaving with instructions to stay cool, drink a lot of fluids, avoid caffeine and alcohol, and eat salty foods. His head was fuzzy, and had no money.
“I need to get the money from my room to pay you,” he told the driver once they were underway.
“You better not try to skip out on me,” the driver said. A placard on the back of the seat said he came from Cape Verde.
Sammy and Jerome were sitting on the stoop.
“Mr. Hank, we thought you were dead.”
“Luckily for you, I’m not,” he said and made them lean sideways, out of his way.
His room was a mess, drawers open, clothes on the floor. He lifted the stained, sour-smelling sheet over the hole in the mattress. The sock was still there. He removed enough to pay the fare, which left only a few dollars, put the sock in the pocket of his pants, went downstairs, and paid the driver.
“Where’d you hide it?” Sammy said.
“Thank you for calling 911,” Hank said.
“Least I can do for my loan officer.”
He went to the 7-11 to buy food with the few dollars he had left.
“I told you, wear a mask,” Miguel said.
“What’s saltier, pretzels or potato chips?”
“Check the bags.”
The chips were saltier, but the pretzels were more like food. He paid for a giant bag and carried it home, chewing on a pretzel shaped like a figure eight. Sammy and Jerome were gone. He worried they were searching his room and hurried upstairs, but there was nothing in his room he cared about. An opera was blasting behind the door of 2F. There was no one in his room. He pushed the dresser against the door, which made him feel better.
It was cooling off. He opened the window, felt the breeze, and straightened up his room, stuffing the sheet and some dirty clothes into the paper grocery bag with handles. He put on his homemade mask and went out to the laundromat. He had enough coins to run a load and on the sidewalk outside waited for the cycles to finish. Back in his room, he made the bed, charged his flip phone, and checked it for messages. Harold had called while he was in the hospital but hadn’t left a message. When he called back, the call went to voice mail. In the kitchen, he filled a glass with tap water, drank it, filled it again, and took it upstairs. As he waited for a call from Harold, he called the unemployment office but was put on hold. He sat on the edge of the bed with the phone to his ear, listening to elevator music and eating pretzels.
