Standing in Pandemic Manhattan

How appropriate that a new miniseries version of The Stand came out this weekend on CBS Access. 

I devoured this Stephen King novel in 2016 amid the nasty internet battles leading up to the presidential election. If I could believe in Russian interference, I could absolutely wrap my mind around a superflu that kills most of the world’s population.  

I was disappointed in the first television version starring Gary Sinise and Molly Ringwald. So far, the first episode of the new miniseries doesn’t capture the isolation of King’s masterpiece.

Maybe I’m so busy living in The Stand during a real-life pandemic that I’m offended by emotional inaccuracies. 

Captain Trips, the fictionalized virus, has a 99.4% fatality rate that is much more devastating than the coronavirus. Yet the eerie feeling I had last week of walking up an empty Fifth Avenue was more frightening than the mass graves depicted in the new drama starring Whoopi Goldberg.

Part of me is sad to see this vibrant city brought low during the holidays. King’s 1978 novel--and its depiction of empty New York landmarks--does remind me of current times, at least the feeling of strangeness. “You were looking at my rings,” says a wealthy Mrs. Blakemoor to the character Larry on a desolate Fifth Avenue. “Would you like one?”

Last Thursday, I waited to ice skate at Rockefeller Center across the street from Free People, an upscale clothing store filled with sparkly clothing suited for another lifetime. Who goes to parties anymore, I wondered.

In ordinary times, I wouldn’t dare venture down to Rock Center during the holidays. Too many fake Elmos and tourists make me feel anxious, especially around the congested rink area. But this year, I got an inexpensive ticket, $20, to do the last social-distanced skate of the evening at 10:50 PM.

As I took my first oval-shaped lap on the little rink, I gazed up at the most famous tree in the world and noted that the Prometheus statue wore a mask. Maybe there were 50 people on the silver-grey ice with an announcer occasionally asking those with a green, blue, or gold sticker to kindly leave the ice in 10 minutes.

“New York Groove” played over the rink’s sound system. And I bent my knees to pump [[and?]] gather speed.

Buildings towering into the sky, it's outta sight

In the dead of night

Here I am, and in this city

(Oooh, ooh-ooh-ooh) With a fistful of dollars, and baby, you'd better believe

I'm back, back in the New York groove.

The last time I heard this great 1978 song by Ace Frehley, I was running the 2014 TCS New York City Marathon buoyed by the force of cheering crowds. Now, metallic flags flapped above us on the plaza. No one peered down. I heard bits of the Saks Fifth Avenue light show, seen by few, that blared “Feliz Navidad” and reminded people to maintain a safe distance.

Meanwhile, I skate-danced in what felt like the remnants of a former society.

Earlier that week, I had four people from my social support bubble over to decorate cookies and go late-night sledding. For those who don’t know, a social support bubble is like an urban family that gets regular COVID tests and eats occasional meals together to keep from going mad. And it’s a real possibility since the restaurants and bars, bastions of unmarried city life, are closed indefinitely for indoor dining.

I didn’t know these individuals before the pandemic, although we passed each other in the coffee shop in the beforetimes. With this cafe being one of the few still in business, and with the scatter of people still here, we crossed paths in the now times.

On this night, members of my support bubble took turns reading poetry and selections from writers we love: from Robert Frost to Alan Ginsberg. I read from The Stand, the scene where Tom and Stu camp together in the mountains and sing as much of “The First Noel” that they remember. They had lost so many friends in Las Vegas, and now they were returning to their new civilization in Colorado.

I read this part: “Stu joined in on the chorus, his voice not as good as Tom’s but mixing well enough to suit the two of them, and the old sweet hymn drifted back and forth in the deep cathedral silence of Christmas morning.”

Later, my friends and I played a swirling piano rendition of “Carol of the Bells.” We turned out the lights in my apartment to watch the snow swirl over the hills of Inwood Hill Park. The “deep cathedral” indeed.

It’s been nearly a year since I sat in my office. With the second wave approaching, I don’t know when I will be back. Many friends have left the city. As blue as I am, I am also connected to Manhattan from a gut and bone level. 

I won’t leave, for now.