Rachel Hawley#
Apartment tours are like first dates, in that you often know you’re not interested within a few seconds of introduction, and must politely smile and nod your way through a sales pitch anyway. I’d been viewing apartments, masked and gloved, for a few weeks when I found The One: an implausibly large one-bedroom with air conditioning a block from the Red Line in Rogers Park. The moment I stepped inside the empty unit, I began sketching a layout in my mind: a couch, comfortable writing chair, and coffee table near the living room windows; a proper desk for my work computer; my kitchen table and chairs in the dining nook (the dining nook!). This apartment, I knew, belonged to the best of all possible futures, the universe in which I become the type of person who makes smoothies with kale and protein powder and hosts parties and never has to weigh whether or not to put on concealer before a Zoom call because my skin is perfect.
In a few weeks, I’ll be packing up my things into boxes. Moving is miserable, but there is no better feeling than having just moved, the apartment neater than it will ever be again and the neighborhood yet to be explored. I’m trying to tell myself that it’s OK to feel hopeful in this moment—hopeful that Ikea will have the perfect rug to bring my new living room together, that the New Yorker will eventually take one of my pitches, that things might return to normal sooner rather than later.
A friend posted a video to Instagram from a recent hiking trip. She zoomed in on a great shot of a turkey vulture chowing down on dinner in the middle of a field. You can’t tell what the vulture is eating at first (the tall grass makes it look like dinner is a pile of discarded beige plastic bags), but then the bird grabs hold of an end of its meal and lifts up the tail and lower half of what appears to be a dead coyote. The bird flips the tail around for a second and then brings it back to the ground, chomping and chomping. My mind drifts as I watch and I daydream of vultures gathering around my body, lying on the ground. “Big creatures,” one vulture says to another, “lots of fat.”
Week four: In search of alternatives, we put ourselves on the long waitlist for Imperfect Foods grocery delivery.
Week whatever: Masking up and heading to the grocery store is a taste of freedom just as much as it is a chore. It’s my framework for quarantine, almost the only place that exists outside of my apartment. There are now more places to go, but I can’t help but prioritize the data as politicians prioritize the economy.
Brianna Wellen#
My 30th birthday party was going to be a blowout. I tend to go hard, hangovers and overdrawn bank accounts be damned, and typically all of June is filled with brunches and concerts and so many shots, because it’s my birthday and I deserve it. The culmination of this monthlong celebration is a giant party at one of my favorite bars, usually Rainbo Club or Parrots Bar & Grill. Well, until coronavirus.
