Day 7: Journal from the Edge of Survival (COVID-19 Shelter-in-place Diary)

 

I walked into the room to hear Charlie talking to himself.

This is not unusual. Despite his tendency to clam up around other people, Charlie is his own favorite conversationalist. Those little under-the-breath self talks seem to run on almost non-stop, often punctuated with little smiles, or grunts of concern or whatever other non-verbal private language the two of them (he and himself) have established over the years. It can go on for hours: “mumble mumble ha! Mumble mumble Argh!”

For many years I used to think he was saying something I should be hearing, and I would ask. “Nothing,” he would reply. That scene played out for over a decade:

“Mumble mumble sigh.”

“What?” I would ask, this time hopeful that maybe he was actually speaking to me.

“Nothing.”

(pause)

“Mumble mumble giggle”

I used to feel kind of dejected at that point. I would even feel jealous of his talkative alter-ego and his inner little friend, until I started leaning in to catch an actual word here and there. I soon realized most of the conversations are about cars or cold fusion or a number of other topics about which I’m grateful I don’t have to nod and smile and say “uh huh” with a properly feigned interested tone. So yeah. Let him have at it. Now it’s just the norm. It fades into the background, like the sounds of cursing coming from wherever he might be with a tool in his hands at any given moment. I barely hear it any more.

This time, though, the words were more articulately formed than the usual mumble-grunt-ha stuff. I could understand them.

“Oh look! He got a scoop!” “Oh no, he can’t reach it!”

I walked closer to see him hunched over his phone, with a YouTube playing on the screen. He saw me and looked up with a strange half smile on his lips.

“Baby ducks!” he exclaimed, gleefully. He bent his face back over the screen and continued to narrate every activity in the video. “Ha! He ran back in! He can’t get out!”

Well, shit. It’s happened.

We have now reached the “cute animal videos” stage of isolation madness. I mean, Charlie is a YouTube addict on a regular basis, but usually he’s watching something narrated by someone with an extremely annoying voice who is explaining how to jam a thingamabopper into a whatsihoozits on some sort of vehicle. Cute animals are not his usual fare.

For a moment I searched for a bong or other tell-tale evidence that might explain the glazed look of glee on his face, but not even an empty bag of Cheetos was in sight. So…madness. That was the only answer. He has slipped into wackyland.

I’m pretty sure watching cute little ducks stuck in a wading pool or cats falling off dressers is indeed a well-documented symptom of insanity brought about by isolation. If not, it should be, don’t you think?

I don’t know for sure, but I think the next stage might involve taking photographs of one’s own feces, followed by declarations of god-hood (which may or may not arise from the images seen in said feces. I’m not totally clear on that part… maybe there’s something else that comes earlier, like breaking out into song while believing the world has turned into a bad musical episode of Buffy. I’m not an expert).

My biggest concern is that our internet is going in and out right now, and I’d really like to keep Charlie in the “cute animal video” stage of this madness before excremental images start showing up on my phone, with captions like “Do you see the pope in that one? It’s right there… see the all-knowing eyes?”

Fortunately, the cable guys are considered “essential to the infrastructure” (and that’s a fucking understatement… how about essential for the future of life itself? Because I can do the zombie apocalypse but I sure as hell can’t do it without Netflix). I even got an appointment for later this afternoon – woo hoo! However, according to the new social isolation rules, he must stand outside my house and toss a new internet modem at my head, then yell at me through the door while I install it myself. Kidding not.

It sounds kinda bad, but if having a man yell instructions at me (why am I suddenly reminded of driving with Charlie in the passenger seat?) is what it takes to keep those cute ducks swimming in that wading pool, I’m all in.

Wishing you all a happy survival.