Maya Dukmasova#
The violence happened elsewhere. Forces of nature and laws of physics had converged to fling the one-ton gray Lexus so hard against a tree or a pole that the car was pinched from the passenger side with the ease of origami paper. I came across the wreckage on Wednesday evening, the first full week of the coronavirus quarantine. It was jarring to see this mangled vehicle sitting abandoned, out of context, in the deserted parking lot of Foster Avenue beach. No glass littered the concrete.
Plenty of people in Chicago already know what it’s like to receive a second-rate performance in a rickety theater from their government. There are neighborhoods where not only wrecked cars but human bodies are left lying in the streets for far too many hours. Maybe now every part of town will get a taste of what it might be like when the state has other priorities than making us feel comfortable. When crises happen the garbage might not get picked up, the mail might never arrive, the car wreck might not be cleared. Might the coronavirus give all Americans a chance to experience how people live in much of the rest of the world?
Karen Hawkins#
I almost, but don’t quite, miss the Bucket Boys. I am a reluctant resident of downtown, and almost overnight, all of the things I gripe most about living here are gone: the ricocheting bang-clickety-bang-bang of the buckets, the amplifier of the singer my partner and I call “Sam Smith guy,” the beep-beep-beep of heavy construction equipment, the chatty din of crowds of tourists. Every retail business within blocks is closed, nearly every office tower is empty, and State Street, that Great Street, is eerily quiet. It should be peaceful, but it feels like the beginning of a horror movie. I hate horror movies. And not just because the Black lady always dies first.
Rachel Hawley#
I can’t help but think of that Sondheim line, “Everything’s different, nothing’s changed.” When I go for long walks in the evening, I see people carrying groceries and walking their dogs the way they always have—the neighborhood feels completely undisturbed. But then there are the headlines that tumble around in my head like pennies in a dryer as I walk: “First Coronavirus Death Reported, Governor Announces”; “Markets Plunge as Global Recession Appears Almost Inevitable.”
In the middle of all this, I’m having a difficult time putting my arms around the thought of uprooting my habitat and moving to a new apartment. I’m excited by what lies ahead. A bigger apartment in a two-flat occupied by the landlords, a genuinely considerate couple who’ve done a lot to make me and my girlfriend feel cared for and welcomed. I’m not excited about the prospect of moving. Part of the reason I’ve lived in the same apartment for so long is I thoroughly dislike the prospect of transferring my life from one place to another; I spent nearly seven years trying to put all my records and archives in their right place, all to box it up and figure it out in a new place. And that’s not factoring in the extensive cleaning regimen we’ve all undertaken after every trip outdoors, or how the “shelter in place” order may affect my ability to load a friend’s car with boxes of books and records to bring them to my new home.
Yazmin Dominguez#
I remember not having a good time. Something happened that turned my mood sour, and I abruptly decided that it was time to leave the party. Before I walked out the door, I saw my friends playing beer pong, holding cups, and sitting on couches socializing. I glanced around the room and my gaze landed on my best friend Lee. He was laughing. I felt bad not saying bye to him, but screw it, I thought, I would see him soon anyways. We had just made plans to go out next weekend. That was the last time I would see him alive. A few days later I learned that Lee was in the hospital. He had an anoxic brain injury and was on life support. I was asked if I wanted to say goodbye before they pulled the plug.
