Babak "Shadie" Rowshan, May 22 1956, October 8, 2022— in memoriam

Shadie, at Jean Lewis memorial gathering, Ann Arbor 2013

Shadie was a generous soul, with a special knack for finding sensitive gifts. On one particular Christmas Shadie made Jean's mom Sylvia very happy, and you would understand much about him just from that story. But telling it requires a picture of the world of the Lewis family in Ann Arbor. That was the world I knew him in, and one he loved as much as I did.

He first rented rooms in Sylvia's house on Burgundy Road after Jean's dad John died in 1991. That was four years after he broke up with Jean when she moved to California. The split-level house is built on a hill that slopes downward from the street, and Shadie shared the bottom level with Jean's brother Ray. For Sylvia, the arrangement had the obvious benefit of turning extra rooms into extra cash. But the real attraction was having someone she could depend on to perform crucial household tasks when she traveled on vacation, such as caring for her beloved cats. As the years went by Shadie became part of the family, and Jean would say that his most important role in the household was facilitating communication between the Lewises.

The Midwest enchantment thing could be projection on my part. Back in the late 90's when Jean and I met, "flyover country" wasn't a term anyone used for inland America, those vast swaths between our coasts. But I had the provincial Bay Area disdain that term expresses, and a comprehensive ignorance of the upper Midwest to go with it. And then there they were, a world of the educated elite, like you might find in Silicon Valley.

John Lewis had been a chemical engineer, who worked on nuclear fusion and other research projects. Sylvia earned an advanced degree too, at a time when few women went to college; photographs from her student days show a determined young woman in severe wire frame glasses, whose visage is softened by kindness. Every December 24th the Lewises had Christmas dinner with Will and Millie Thomas, a custom that started in the early 50s when both couples were newlyweds. Will was an inventor and entrepreneur who made many innovations in industrial processes; Millie, with a Master's degree in social work, was ahead of her time like Sylvia.

But it wasn't their accomplishments that made the deepest impression on we Midwest imports, it was their style.

You could say that style was quiet, decorous, friendly. A night and day difference from the angry theatrics that had been the staple of my previous family lives, and from the tumult in Shadie's native land. I felt kinship in what we had fled, in what we had found. When Jean and I visited Ann Arbor, a leisurely evening with Shadie at a bookstore coffeshop, talking about ideas, was part of the routine. Behind the words, it seemed we were upholding the principle that life could be interesting at a conversational tone.

Sylvia might have described her family's style as Protestant, and she would have a point. She was the only child of practicing Methodists, and accepted the teaching and customs of that faith until she was finishing high school. Then she decided that she no longer believed in the Apostle's Creed. When she went to college at Northwestern she took an anthropology class from Lewis Browne. Browne's book, "This Believing World," is a guided tour of the major absurdities embraced by credulous humanity. Sylvia read it; realized that the world was filled with pious souls convinced of incompatible notions, none of which were necessarily so; and said goodbye to what remained of her Methodist faith.

But she held on to the Methodist customs tenaciously. She wanted her Christmas carols, her Christmas trees, she cultivated an unassuming personal presentation. If you're Jewish and have encountered the concept of "cultural Jew," you get the idea. She met John at a Methodist youth group.

Sylvia never told me that John objected to her skepticism, but in deference to her mom, their three children, Jean, Anne and Ray, started out in Methodist Sunday school. Then when her mom died Sylvia felt free to switch the family to the Unitarians, where customs without faith was more the rule than the exception.

Sylvia became a fixture in the Ann Arbor Unitarian community. She seldom missed a Sunday service, but as adults, her three children were nor regular churchgoers.  being brought up within the confines of religious faith, they did not have a strong need for cultural Protestantism as a bridge to the secular world.

Sylvia danced every dance at our wedding. She was already in her 70s. In our pillow talk we called her a force of nature, and were only half joking. Younger Unitarians sought her guidance on how to solve problems with aging parents, and Sylvia bestowed advice with the authority of someone who seemed to straddle generations. As in her youth, she was a force to be reckoned with.

And so she remained after dementia started in, although a force that remembered the importance of doing things her way even after she had lost her grip on what that way actually was. Dementia started slowly, the occasional absent look, and thinking it was morning when she woke up from an afternoon nap. Shadie had been thinking of moving out, but decided he needed to stay on in her hour of need.

Sylvia's Unitarianism became even more important to her as she entered deep old age. Once she fell on her way to the early Sunday service, was treated in emergency for light injuries, and went to the late service promptly after her released. She was that devoted, and sharing a pew with her was always part of our Ann Arbor visits. She would often tell us tales from her spiritual journey, including the pivotal role of Browne's book. Shadie understood that she wanted to pass the torch.

It came to pass that one December, after Sylvia had just started the big decline, we went back to Ann Arbor for the holidays. The Lewis family had a leisurely Christmas morning routine. We'd sleep in, and then have bagels and lox around the Christmas tree before opening gifts. That year we'd noticed an oddity in the presents arrayed around the tree.  Amidst the various sized packages there were some small flat cubes, one for each of us, all from Shadie. When we opened these gifts, we saw that they were all the same book: "This Believing World" by Lewis Browne. He had even bought one for himself.

The book had fallen out of print, these were not easy gifts. But there we were thanks to Shadie, all on the same page and honoring Sylvia's quest for truth. And honoring Shadie too, living in exile from a clerical regime. He was a brave, gentle, and generous person, and on that Christmas morning he created a glowing moment showing one of the best things about what it means to be part of our family.

 

Flash Fiction: The Life and Times of Little Ms. Perfect

© µ 2022,  1,499 words

    Dr. Jo Collins drives past pine trees, and the occasional house with gravel driveway and ragged lawn. It's late afternoon, late winter, in the Sierra foothills. She's making a house call. Her phone goes bright and says "My Husband." 

    She's relieved; if Majid is feeling sociable then he's not pacing the house like a caged animal, despairing of finishing the thesis from hell.

    "You will tell her diagnosis?" he asks, no preliminaries.

    "Which diagnosis, 'rotting boomer'?" Their private joke.

    "Malignant year eighteen months."

    Jo does dread that conversation. Not because sad, not for Suzanne. "Because fear," she blurts.

    "Loud thinking," Majid observes, knowing her well. 

    She crosses the Frontiera city limits. Some of the homes are trailers, the lawns fade to grease puddles on dead weeds. Suzanne and Curtis's place looms, motorcycles outside being repaired or scavenged for parts. "Arrived, tell you all after your class. Kiss you soon dearest."

………   ………   ………   ………   ………

    Curtis waves a wrench hello. Their pit bull Dolly lunges at Jo, then recoils at the end of her leash; the steel pole tethering the dog quivers. Curtis holds Dolly by the collar so Jo can get by, then follows her through the front door.

    She slides a folder onto the Formica tabletop. Curtis yells "Suze, Dr. Collins!"

    She knows Suzanne dislikes her, but why? After all, the couples are matched sets: Curtis and Majid are two reasons why Frontiera is only 95% white. 

    And there the similarity ends. Majid is a despised physics teacher at the community college; half his students drop before the final. Curtis is a hero to the Bay Area transplants, a Black conservative validating their move to the sticks as a quest for family values, for property values. It wasn't white flight, perish the thought.

    Bed springs creak, but no Suzanne.

    There's a shelf above the table covered with small tools, lubricants, adhesives, and the complete works of Larry Elder. One book lies open on its spine, a helmet serving as bookmark. A TV, which Jo has never observed in its off state, shows Ukraine news.

    A man standing inside a doorway has a lopsided, welcoming grin. Close up, his "smile" is a second degree burn stretching from below an ear to mid-upper lip. He'll need reconstructive surgery. The camera pans back to show the scorched, crumpled facade of his apartment building.

    Suzanne emerges, adjusting her MAGA cap. "Oh, I loooove a good war! Don't you hon?" she says.

    Curtis, who has a 101 Airborne tattoo, says quietly "there's a downside."

   "I know! Just funning her." She appraises Jo. "Trump-Russia, Trump-Russia, now you'll get him!"

    "Suze," Curtis says.

    "Isn't Doc Jo so nice, house calls and all! Came up here with her husband to help a 'medically underserved community.' To educate us!"

    "Majid's just trying teaching while he finishes his thesis," Jo says, setting the record straight.

    "His thesis! You gonna be an MD married to a PhD. Little Miss Perfect." She distills her venom. "Little Ms. Perfect."

    "Suze!" Curtis says. 

    Suzanne is a slender, sultry sixty-two. She lights a cigarette and exhales smoke languorously. Fuck cancer. Fuck you. She nods at the folder, and Jo hands her the top sheet. "Thanks, getting chilly," Suzanne says, flicking her lighter and torching the fateful paper.

    Mental health break time. "Got paged," Jo says, bolting out toward her car.

    Curtis races after her, too late or just in time, depending on your perspective. Dolly bites Jo on the hand and wrist, but a kick from Curtis stops the mauling there.

………   ………   ………   ………   ………

    There's a good reason for taking opiates. Pain. The label on the codeine Curtis has been hoarding prescribes "1 every 4 hours", but Jo gladly accepts three, screw professional decorum. Curtis, doubtless aware of his legal jeopardy, leans against a sink in the tiny bathroom and assures Jo that Dolly had her shots. Jo sits on the toilet lid, and as the agony subsides, explains how to clean and dress her wounds. By the time her right forearm is encased in bandages, she's high.

    Curtis offers a lift to Emergency. Jo says Majid will take her, just bring her to the college. Suzanne crowds into the bathroom. "You scared her," she says reproachfully. Jo laughs at her.

    "Hon, did I ever tell you, Dr. Jo and I got something in common," Suzanne says. Curtis is silent. "Did …"

    "Many times," Curtis says.

   "Walnut Creek!" Suzanne says to him triumphantly. That city symbolizing suburbia to Northern Californians. "Course I grew up before the change. The only one who looked like you shined shoes on Broadway Plaza. And now, DIversiTY! Not enough for Black Lives Matter, you know they broke Nordstrom's windows? Weren't you embarrassed?"

    Curtis looks miserable; Jo's job is to rescue people. She holds out her left hand and Curtis helps her up. The pill bottle that had been on her lap falls to the floor, and Suzanne pockets it. 

………   ………   ………   ………   ………

    Curtis starts his car and turns on his music.  "Your wife won't need your codeine," Jo says, "since …", she  clears her throat, "… she'll have stronger drugs soon. Look after her, like you do her home."

    Curtis turns the sound down. "At first she was just another prisoner I wrote to. Then came visits, then I said let's try it, live with me when you get out. She said 'Ok, but no weed, no booze, nothing.' Gonna catch hell tonight."

    Oh. Curtis asks where she met Majid.

    "Physics class. I was a chem major. There's weird stuff science still doesn't understand, like why tiny particles are nowhere in particular until you look at them. According to 'many worlds,' there are infinite realities, with more created every moment something could be somewhere or somewhere else. One day after class Majid told me he didn't like many worlds, he believed there were hidden variables connecting things that seem different. But why? Einstein believed in hidden variables too, and they laughed at him. Doesn't that tell you something?"

    "So it's our first date and we're walking along, not quite holding hands, and this car misfires. Majid dives to the pavement. Then he flashes this sheepish smile and says 'In my country, many sides every question. All sides have guns.' Then I understood."

    "PTSD," Curtis says. He turns his music back up.

………   ………   ………   ………   ………

    The note on the door says class is canceled. Majid suddenly sick, without even texting? Very sick indeed. "Perfect" — in a moment of brutal clarity, Jo realizes her day is careening downward toward big loss. Which room will she find him in?

    They drive to Newbie, a Frontiera neighborhood transitioning from backwoods to suburbia. The split-level houses on Jo's cul-de-sac would look respectable in Walnut Creek. She lives at the end, with a stream burbling through a huge backyard.

    "Let me out here," she says when they reach her street, "here!" Startled Curtis obeys. He drives off, then she walks home.

    The house is dark except for a feeble light coming from the study.  In all possible worlds, you don't get long to confront a dead body. She fumbles unlocking the door one-handed, but gets inside.

………   ………   ………   ………   ………

    Majid notices Jo is standing in the shadows watching him. "Crying?" he asks, squinting. She dabs her eyes, and shakes her head no.

    There's a single notebook page on his desk, and an overflowing wastebasket beside it. Majid points to the desk. "Genius pile." Then to the wastebasket. "Idiot pile." He tosses the page. "One pile."

    He notices the time. "Forgot. Angry?" Again, no. 

    "Couldn't class, imposter too." Jo recognizes that term. It refers to students who invent sad excuses for missing exams. Or to himself, meaning how dare he dream of completing a thesis. Evidently there's a quantum limit to the size of an imposter cluster.

    Majid turns up a radio. A learned pundit discourses on refugee attitudes: seems the Mid-Easterners have a special sympathy for the Ukrainians, and a new appreciation for America. "Now, empathy for Muslims!" he says, happily confusing subjects with objects.

    She thinks "fat chance" quietly, puts on an encouraging smile, and steps into the light.

    He notes her bandages. He's appalled. "Make sense, doctor come help, attack doctor!" 

    Her pandemic story exactly. "Got a ride back," she says, breaking her silence. Majid rolls his eyes. "She burned it." 

    "Loud thinking?"

    "Her diagnosis." Weird thought, maybe Suzanne was modeling warmth mattering more than truth?

    "Want to walk by the stream?" she says. They'll do that sometimes when he's dead-ended. He'll tell her of equations, and she'll ask smart, outsider questions, and he'll calm down, and they'll feel close.

    "Not." He dons his coat and pats for his keys. "Hospital. Please." He strokes her face softly, ordinarily his invitation to engage in one of their favorite activities. Now it means 'lean on me and let's go where you need to go.'  And she does, and they do, awkward at first but they persist. And his newly reliable, deeply married touch is the perfect … really hits the spot, under the circumstances.

Sam and Brittney Wedding Album

 

On Saturday October 3, 2020, at a house in in Merced CA, my son Sam married Brittney Palmer, now Brittney Kurtz-Pico.  There were railroad tracks nearby, which made a great backdrop for photos.

Clockwise from bottom right
Sam's son Nate; Nate's cousins
Jamal & A'Nirah; Nate's sister 
Sarah and brother Moises

My assignment was to bring extended family from Richmond. Mission accomplished.

We gathered at long tables in the backyard to witness the ceremony.

Facing the altar

One of the seasonal crimson bouquets 
on the tables.

On left Jerry, Sam's AA sponsor.  
On right, Danny, from Solidarity House.

Facing the altar

Brittney's son and father, 
Michaels Jr. & Sr, accompanying
the bride to the altar

"The ring signifies the commitment you have made to one another. The circle itself has no beginning and no end, and is therefore a symbol of infinity.  It is endless, eternal, just the way love should be."

"I promise to accept your love,
and to love and accept you
just the way you are. With this 
ring I thee wed."

First moments as husband and wife

We feasted on burritos and drank horchata.  The cake & cupcakes were a big hit.

After eating some us went out to the tracks for a photoshoot. Even in the age of the automobile, railroads still have their aura of distance and adventure, of life unfolding and changing before our eyes.

Sam with kids and dad

Brittney with Sam and her sisters Brenna and Amber

Best of luck 
on the big adventure!

Covid-19 Flash Fiction: Untouchable

    My car's gone when I come out of the laundromat.  The police dispatcher says they towed it.  Parked illegally, unpaid tickets dating back years.  I've been sleeping in the back seat, now what? Maybe Fran will like me better now?   After we broke up she wouldn't touch me with a ten foot pole; with social distancing, maybe that's down to six.  This pandemic's a joke to me, like everything else.

    But Fran doesn't laugh at my pole routine.  Her front door's cracked open, and I see a pale strip of her, cute face to slender hip.  I'm breathing hard from carrying my duffel bag upstairs. It's stashed to the side of her landing where she can't see.

    She waits for me to subside, then flicks a tendril of hair away from her eyes. "Phil,' she says softly, "I did touch you."  And with that I'm on fire, stupid me.  Getting back in bed with her would be great, but all I need's a place to sleep. I gaze into her living room, a question of a couch in my eyes.  "Still taking classes?" she asks. Her nose quivers. "Um, you need a shower.  Where are you staying?"     

    "Who is it Fran?" a male voice calls out from inside. 

    I turn and start down. "Staying with my brother," I yell, and she yells something back like "The one you hate?" I shrug and descend quickly, and only remember my bag when I reach the bottom.

    The thought occurs, don't bother, like go catatonic, and at least avoid the pain of more stairs. Keep moving around, and the prospects are limited.  Yet I do have alternatives. Two. I wasn't exactly lying to Fran about bro' Alfie, just improving on the truth.  Then there's always Susan. Up I go.

………  ………   ………  ………   ………  ………   ………  ………     

    Fran thinks I hate Alfred the Great because we never have anything to talk about besides his car, his house, his whatever.  But nothing interests me more now than the story of possessions, the glory of having.  I board an empty evening bus to Piedmont, determined to learn more.   

    The driver, a substantial black gentleman, peers at me over his mask with sad, disapproving eyes. I sit up front, but he won't talk to me.  As if he thinks I'm making him drive me to the ends of the earth on a doomed, illicit mission.

    I get off within trudging distance of my brother's house. A vision of his fridge opening pops into my mind, and my step quickens. Breakfast at the laundromat was a candy bar, lunch nothing.  Screw dignity.

     His gate's locked, and an array of hidden LEDs strobe me when I shake it. A topiary hedge in the shapes of birds follows a stone slab path to the house. There's a grove of potted bonsai trees on the front porch.  Lights pulse above the door, as if the house were signaling a turn.

    Alfie's voice comes out of a small cage hanging on the gate, which I'd mistaken for a bird feeder. "What's that Phil?" he asks, and a little red laser dot scurries across the bag by my feet.

    "Cool security system!"

    "What are you on Phil? What do you want? It couldn't be to make something out of your life."

    "The world needs nobodies," I say, "doctors can't just treat each other."

    Silence from the cage.  The street is quiet too, the lawns of the neighboring houses empty. I was wrong, I do have a shred of dignity left. Enough to prefer a private spat to a public one. But Alfie declines the gauntlet.

    "People do appreciate us," the cage says, "there's a pandemic on.  You may have heard talk."  The front door opens and my brother walks toward me, wearing a surgical mask and gloves.  He stops more than 6 feet from his side of the gate. He ain't gonna offer no fridge, no couch.

    "What's going on with the dentist?" he says.

   "Fran. She's a dental assistant. We were just talking about you."

   "That's still a big improvement."

    Over Susan he means, who he dubbed "the loser English major."  He looks down at my bag, and at me, working toward a question he can't quite reach. "Hang on," he says, and goes back inside.

    Discreet street lamps have come on by the time he emerges, holding a small cooler.  "I'll buzz you in," he says, "and then …."

    "I'll open the gate, get the goodies, and take my leave expeditiously," I volunteer.

    "Good luck Phil," he says.

    I open the cooler at the bus stop. Baguettes! Cheese! The thought occurs, say thank you first, to someone or something.  My prayer comes out as "I am SO effing hungry!" I call that grace.

………  ………   ………  ………   ………  ………   ………  ………

    Susan answers the door with her nose and mouth covered by a blue bandanna.  She looks astonished by my luggage, maybe because the face covering exaggerates the raised eyebrows effect.  "Do you realize what time it is?" she asks, bidding me enter, but keeping her distance.  She nods toward an antiseptic wipes container, and I use them on myself and the cooler.  Then she tosses me a surgical mask, and watches me put it on.

    "How's it fit?" she asks, gesturing toward the back of her head like she was twanging a strap.  I shrug, and she grabs the cooler and leads me into her living room.  

    We plop down on opposite ends of a couch, facing a TV.  A talking head looks serious.  "Thought you never watched," I say.

    "Do for national disasters, the World Cup, that sort of thing."

    The head's replaced by paired country names and numbers: Italy 7,000; China 3,000.  "Couldn't be the World Cup," I say, "too big for soccer scores."  

    She grimaces, acknowledging my comedian vocation.  "Strength in numbers," she says, "the guy thing.  Numbers, numbness, real life hurts, better off keeping meaningless scores."

    I grimace back, acknowledging her Susanness. Always the smartest one in whatever class we took together, she does micro-performances, like the numbers riff. She writes poems too, and I never know what to say when she recites one to me.

    She turns off the TV as if slamming down the phone. "Here's a number for you," she says, "0.  That's how much you still matter to me. Let me guess. Fran turned you away, and the cooler's because she felt sorry for you."

    "Untrue."  

    "Which part?"                       

    I don't say 'the 0,' although in times of various kinds of deprivation, I rely on her wanting me back. Instead I play lawyer: "Not coming from her place."

    Susan rolls her eyes, then struggles up from the couch and exits.  She returns with a hefty plastic basin.  She takes items out of the cooler, examines them, and puts some in the basin, others on a coffee table.  When the cooler's empty she sits back on the couch.

    "Phil, what do you think," she says, with accelerating tempo, "is there's a subtle yet crucial distinction between a woman on the one hand, and her natal cleft on the other?"

     She's a comedian too?  I mug thinking hard. "No way."

    "That part's yours," she says grimly, indicating the coffee table clutter.   So she wasn't joking; evidently, she's just completed our final accounting. 

    I do understand. One time I spent the night and "borrowed" cash from her purse in the morning.  She never said anything, but now I see it in her eyes.  "OK, I'll go find me a park bench," I say, playing the guilt card,  "keep all the food."

    "Thanks, and you can keep the mask" she says. Guess she's beyond guilt, she's not getting rich as a free lancer. "There's a pandemic on, you may have heard," she adds, sounding like my asshole brother. Then she tops off the basin with some of the coffee table delicacies, and lugs it into the kitchen.  I hear a fridge opening, the sounds of foodstuff placement.

    But she never actually said "get out." My remaining minutes of warmth could morph into hours. I picture her returning from the kitchen and retreating wordlessly into her bedroom, granting me the couch by sufferance; then we'd talk things out over breakfast.  

     Right.  "The real truth," I actually say out loud, "is that I'm welcome nowhere."

    Susan's still in the kitchen, but a voice answers: "Then lean into it."  Explain, I think.  "Don't wait," it says, "welcome nowhere, nowhere welcomes you. I'm the black hole that tried before to pull you away from the rejection tribunal.  The nothing that wants you to sleep on its couch.  Come."

    I take off my shoes, bolt for the front door and step outside.  Cold pavement slaps the soles of my feet. Susan appears behind me, looking quizzical.  I smile, wave, say "you're a talented poet," and start running.  Pain escalates with every footfall.  I'm thinking I'll dive behind a big bush and curl up; I'm thinking I'll dart in front of an oncoming car. Whichever comes along first. Whatever converges quickest on the vanishing point.

© µ 2020

Covid-19 Flash Fiction: Poof

     "Both are true," Tara tells Jo.  They're outside the store on break at the same time, which might or might not violate the social distancing rules.  She'd been thinking about "ambiguous," one of the few words her daughter Cassie would say to her since coming back home from college. So annoying, but the concept stuck. "Concept" was another metered word she'd picked up recently.

    "Both what?" Jo asks.

    Tara waves dissmissively. "Goin' crazy, just popped out."  Something about the gloves they were wearing, and the masks they were supposed to be wearing but weren't.   About the fact that they'd be going back inside soon, because everybody needs groceries, and some people need to work. But on the other hand, people don't want to get sick and die.

    "Stop shelter in place, stop the virus," Jo says, absolutely no transition.  It's another installment on a monologue that's lasted weeks, on and off. It started when Jo told her that the so-called epidemic was really a plot to spook the stock market to keep Trump from getting re-elected.  Now Jo says "If we don't stand up to them, we'll all be eating bat soup!"

    Tara nods.

    "A few thousand have died from Covid-19," Jo concludes, "hundreds of thousand die from heart attacks, millions from abortions!"

    Tara looks at her toes.  She wants to get the enemy right, and Jo could be confusing. There had been a different monologue, one that started the day Jo took out her sewing during break and said she was making masks for the war effort.

    "Which war is this one now?" Tara had asked, and Jo had given her a long, funny, searching look.

    "I'm so impressed by his leadership," Jo said finally, "the country will unite behind him."

    Now Jo shrugs and takes a drag on her cig.  "It's like musical chairs, shelter in place" she says. "When the music stops, you're stuck with whoever. This morning I told Michelle, 'confidentially, I hate your guts.'"

    "You didn't!"

    "I did."  She turns her pretty face to the side, and beneath concealing makeup, Tara makes out the contours of a fist-sized bruise. "Big liberal," Jo says.  Then she grinds out her cig, and the two friends go back inside to sort produce.

………  ………   ………  ………   ………  ………   ………  ……… 

    On returning home, Cassie surprises Tara by being at the kitchen table. Her daughter had gone into her room and slammed the door when she moved back, rarely emerging except to use the bathroom. She's hunched over her laptop with earbuds in, bobbing her head to private music.  Tara peers over her shoulder. There's a world map on the laptop screen, dotted with pulsing red circles, like a depiction of a bad headache in a pain reliever commercial.

    Tara taps her shoulder, and Cassie startles and yanks out her earbuds. "Did something happen?" she asks.

    "Something … it's 6 o'clock," Tara says, "I came home from work."

    "Mom, glad you're OK, but I need to tell you something."  She rises and faces Tara, hands on hips, eyes huge and hard behind rimless glasses, strands of long frizzy hair gleaming in stray beams of fading sunlight.

    "I'm for the virus.  I mean, I understand what it's trying to say.  OK, it's like this stupid thing, not even alive, I'll explain the concept to you sometime.  But it's outsmarting all of you, not just President Dickhead. And judging you. Are you racist? Sure, why should you worry if a bunch of little yellow people are getting sick. Are you callous?  Unambiguously!  You're in your car, you pretend you don't see the beggars holding up signs, and you drive off quickly.  Will you be able to get away fast enough now that they might be spreaders?"

    "Glad to see you're … up and about," Tara says. "What should I make for dinner?"

    "Whatever you want to eat, I'm going out with Chris."

    "Chris?"

    "Chris." She thinks her mom wants to know her date's gender, and isn't about to give her the satisfaction of finding out.

    Tara clears her throat. "There's this six foot apart thing."

    "Oh mom. If you can't accept me as I am, I'll go stay with dad."  Her unbeatable ace-in-the-hole.  The doorbell rings and Cassie rushes out, flinging a "Bye" over her shoulder… and leaving her laptop unlocked.

    Tara clicks on a red circle pulsing over where New York should be, and the circle dissolves into a photo of a trench, sacks lying on the bottom, a priest standing at the edge. She wonders if the people in the sacks had mothers who adored them, and who they hated; and she wonders what they wondered about.  If all families were zoos like theirs? If they would have to die like everyone else? Some of them must have had ways as odd as hers, and collected words as souvenirs; maybe one minute they were trying to decide if "President Dickhead" was a keeper, and the next minute, poof, they're trench filler.

South Korea, the Country that's not on Lockdown by Jacques Kim (translation)

MARCH 18, 2020 by Jacques Kim in Mediapart.fr 

Translated by Google.  Matt Pico contributed the occasional correction, as well as frequent rearrangements for the sake of English cadence. 1.1K words 

Thanks to a phenomenal number of tests, monumental tracing efforts, and the civic spirit of its citizens, South Korea has tamed the spread of Covid-19 without closing its stores or quarantining its cities.  A resident's report.

    We get the numbers every morning. This Thursday, 152 new cases, out of 8,565 total. After four days in a row below 100, that's a jump, but still low compared to before. There are a total of 91 deceased, compared to 264 in France.  The mortality rate remains low, around 1% (vs. 8.3% in Italy). And South Korea was once the most impacted country after China.

    For the moment, the epidemic is under control, and the country hobbles along. We don't "shelter in place," although schools have been closed since the beginning of March. But shops, bars, and restaurants are open. The roads were not barricaded. Even Daegu, a city of 2.5 million inhabitant, with the most cases in the country, was not placed behind a cordon sanitaire. My children's day care is still open, albeit with smaller classes.

    Aside from a shortage of beds in Daegu when the epidemic first struck, the hospitals handled the surge of critically ill patients. South Korea restricted its ties with the outside world but never severed them, even when the epidemic raged in neighboring China.

    Factory closings are rare. Public transportation works normally, although bus drivers keep bottles of hydro-alcoholic solution close at hand. Home deliveries have not been interrupted. In recent days, streets, parks and restaurants seem busier.

    But strict measures remain in place, for good reason. Since February, all mass gatherings have been prohibited, and sporting events and masses canceled. Some evangelical churches defied the ban - such as the River of Grace Church in the suburbs of Seoul. Fifty-four members have tested positive; the pastor, infected, sprayed salt water in the mouths of his faithful to immunize them. This Wednesday Seoul asked its nationals returning from abroad to remain confined to their home for two weeks.

    Telecommuting is taking hold, a small revolution in a country where corporate culture demands a presence in the office. If the government did not take drastic  measures, it may be because their instructions for physical distancing were followed from the start. Koreans have drastically limited outings and trips. In the streets, there are few unmasked faces - to refuse to wear one shows a lack of respect for others. There's a bottle of hydro-alcoholic gel in the elevator of my building. It's replaced often.

    How to explain these apparent initial successes against Covid-19? In a word, South Korea was ready. Poorly prepared for the MERS epidemic in 2015, it put new contingency plans in place. The country could also rely on a solid industrial base; not everything was relocated to China.

    Screening tests are the best readiness example.  Starting January 15, the CEO of Seegene, a Korean pharmaceutical company, made developing them top priority.  The authorities understood the urgency, and approved the tests in one week, instead of the usual eighteen months. Production started immediately, and the whole company, researchers too, worked the production line.

    The result: at the height of the crisis in early March, South Korea tested 18,000 people a day. So far it's tested a total of almost 300,000, more than one in two hundred Koreans.  By way of comparison, France performs only 2,500 tests per day, not enough even to protect health care staff.

    These tests are crucial, allowing rapid identification of infected persons - in particular asymptomatic cases who transmit the disease without knowing it.  Those who test positive are put in home quarantine, and the spread is slowed.

    The test is free if prescribed by a doctor, but anyone can get one for the asking. Korea had the brilliant idea of ​of drive-in test stations, which minimize the risk of transmission. A test costs around $128, with the fee waived if the test comes back positive.

    The movements of infected persons are reconstructed using credit card purchases, cell phone records, and surveillance camera footage; then the information is shared via smartphone alerts. My phone rings several times a day to tell me which restaurant in my neighborhood, which store, an infected person has visited, and the date and time. If the person had been to the cinema, the alert includes the seat number.

    There have been few protests over breach of privacy. Since the MERS epidemic, Korean law has authorized access to all information necessary to slow an epidemic. There is an encouraging sign in recent days, fewer daily alerts.

    The government played the transparency card from the start, providing daily figures for the progression of the epidemic. Most Koreans believe these statistics and trust the authorities. A striking counterexample to the Chinese model:  first deny the crisis and persecute whistleblowers; then lockdown a whole province.

    The epidemic took hold here because infected members of an evangelical sect did not isolate themselves, resulting in 60% of the South Korean cases. Many of these evangelicals are young, which helps explain the low Korean mortality rate. However, the overwhelming majority of the citizenry respect the social distancing guidelines and submit to quarantine when required.

    Masks, which allow a contaminated person to limit the risk of transmission, are readily available but rationed; anyone can buy two per week.  And in South Korea, life goes on under the masks. Koreans watched with dismay the carelessness displayed in early March in European capitals. That gathering of Smurf fans, tight against each other, and claiming that "the coronavirus is nothing"; French President Macron, going to the theater March 6 to "encourage the French to go out despite the coronavirus." As if the suffering Chinese and Koreans counted for nothing.

    Personally, I hit a wall of misunderstanding trying for weeks to get my family and friends in France to prepare for the worst. "It's just a bad flu," they told me, "stop being anxious. We have a good health system in France."  Deep down, we have a Western superiority complex, and looked down on those vaguely underdeveloped Asiatics who had let themselves be overwhelmed. Such contempt will cost us dearly.

    Once idealized by Koreans, the West has fallen from its pedestal. The lack of tests, the contempt displayed for two months of warning signals, the Korean students returning from abroad infected, were revelations. The Emperor has no clothes.

    Will South Korea itself now be a model, a democratic alternative in the fight against the coronavirus? As opposed to ultra-authoritarian China, which now seeks to use its "success" against Covid-19 to improve its image. Too early to tell.

    Especially since South Korea is far from being able to declare victory over the epidemic. There are signs that it's less vigilant, such as fewer masks in the streets. New foci of contamination have appeared: a call center in Seoul, an Evangelical Church in Seongnam, and retirement home in Daegu.  On Tuesday, the school closings were extended by two weeks. The crisis may have only just begun.

Covid-19 flash fiction: Shopping Trip

   There's always something, know what I mean?  Something gets in the way of some simple thing you do, for some crazy reason nobody explains.  Like this "epidemic," don't get me started.  The real epidemic is people living in their own realities.  OK, we all need to eat, and for me that means making the tired shopping trek to TJs after work. Bunch of other people waiting their turn to get in must have the same need, but that's all we share.  Get the f*** out of my way!  Just kidding.

    No one talks, they're keeping their — what's do they all it — social distance. Get that any time you want, just take out your phone.  That's what I do, and I'm about to beat my top Robo Football score when I just know someone's like, eyeing me.  Look up, and I don't know him, but I know all about him. "Hey … " he starts in, and the smell of booze is overpowering.  His clothes are filthy, skin shows through in places.

    "I'm not even going to talk to you," I say, "if you're happy this way.  Are you?" He does a sorrowful shuffle, then crosses his hand over his chest and shivers.  It's cold and rainy. I nod and say "wait here."

    I walk to the head of the line where this big guy, bouncer type, is letting in small groups as shoppers exit from another door.  I look inside  and see they're swabbing handbaskets and shopping carts with anti-bacterial wipes before giving them to the shoppers.  Great.  I say "needs extra cleaning help, be right out" and dart through the doors. The bouncer guy is too surprised to stop me.  "Gimme some of those" I tell the startled cleaning crew, and score a fistful of wipes.

    The guy stands were I'd left him, letting the line wend around him like he was a toxic dump.  Maybe he doesn't realize I'd left, he is that … like I was once.  I tug my sweater by way of explanation and say "sentimental value," then wipe off his hands and arms.  He doesn't blink when I approach his face, so I do that too.  They let in another batch, people inch by us, and one of them stink eyes me and says "Now you'll spread what he's got."

    "Hope not, or what you've got either," I tell him.  I take off my sweater and help the guy put it on, then we walk toward my car.  I call my wife, and by way of hello she says "working late?"

    "Yeah."

    "Be safe, see you soon."

    I open the car and let the guy in. "Wait here," I tell him, "when I'm done we'll go back to where I work.  There's always an extra bed.  But for now you must be hungry, wuddya want?"