One Evening in a Pandemic

The soaked street extends before me and flushes like a mineshaft lined with myriad jewels. Blues, purples, and reds drip out onto black pavement that glistens from a recent downpour. Bookstores, restaurants, banks, and tobacco shops all cast their sedating tone into the night. 

I walk with no destination in mind, letting my eyes step inside and explore the stores. They made the most of the narrow avenue by squeezing a surprising number of establishments onto it. All these laundromats, bars, noodle joints, tattoo parlors, curiosity shops… 

On this weekend evening the street should be teeming with the curious and the hungry, but for the last month it has been motionless and divested of humanity.

I stop in front of a sushi place. At the top of its narrow facade hangs a neon sign swelling with blue serenity. The wall beneath it is made of glass. 

Peering through, I examine an orderly interior. The tables and chairs are arranged and spaced with an intact precision. They stand under faded lamps. Most of the energy flows to the very back of the restaurant—to the fake, bygone shop front that makes up the far wall and brightly demands all the attention for itself. It is framed by a pergola, thick bamboo columns, and a wooden countertop. In the middle, a window opens into a kitchen that extends and disappears into shadow like an abandoned grotto. Underneath the opening stands a glass display case, white and empty. 

My shoes splash on pavement that won’t be dry for a while. The street ahead of me begins to curve down and plunge beneath the horizon. I approach the hillside and stop, looking out over the smudges and bursts of color that reveal the breadth of the city. It expands in every direction but lies quiet, failing to emit the strum of urban life.

I start the descent and let gravity quicken my pace. The businesses that go by look off-kilter as they jut away from the road at an oblique angle, toiling against the steepness. 

Inside one impressive shop front display, in the space behind the glass, haphazardly stacked upon pedestals, easels, and shelves, are impressive heaps of tomes. Shiny, new volumes; old publications with ragged bindings; tiny booklets of clever quotations; biographies of historical figures looking so important and I feel that my life will be incomplete until I read them; trashy coffee table books; intriguing fictions with swashbuckling covers that the prose can never live up to; a volume on the art of organizing your refrigerator; anthologies; histories; literature; travel; genres; genres…

I try the front door, expecting it to be locked, but it swings inward. With feet remaining on the sidewalk, I lean forward into the store, feeling guilty about my presence, waiting and listening to see if I should come in. There is no one behind the cash register and the lighting is too faint and I like the idea of a book more than a book anyway. I close the door and return to the silent street.

At a three-way intersection at the bottom of the hill, it is almost bright enough to be daytime as the stores on both sides irradiate their expensive products behind thick glass. The hour is not that late and the places look open, but their glitzy seductions are lost on barren sidewalks.

I turn to the right and walk past factories made of red brick. The bulky frames are from a lost era, but today they are edifices for pubs, restaurants, and offices. Crepuscular and empty of humanity, they look like the remnants of an industrial age ghost city.

Stone stairs in a rocky hillside extend upward at an aggressive angle. The ascent seems to take a long time but eventually levels out to a residential area. I move past a row of brick houses languishing as quietly as the rest of the city. The windows glow warmly but the homes are hermetically sealed with blinds.

A wide, commercial thoroughfare eventually consumes the little avenue. Bristling with halide bulbs, washed out, the street trenches between monoliths of concrete and glass. The ashen road carries me for a while with a steady descent and finally sets me down onto a cobblestone promenade that runs with a black river.

I stop. I am no longer alone.

On a sturdy, copper-green bench, sitting relaxed and still, are two people. I stand a little way behind and to the left, remaining silent so as to not disturb them. They lean softly against each other. The woman’s head lies tenderly on the man’s shoulder; his cheek rests against her dark, curly hair. 

In front of them, past a guard rail, is the wide river that marks the end of this city and the start of another. Within its dark waters are a thousand lights, triumphantly plumbing the depth with an electric zeal. In the reflection above they thrust up into the stars that are barely visible—you have to squint and look away from the dazzling high-rises.

Gently, the couple shift away from each other. The man looks back at me.

“How are you doing, man?” he says warmly.

The woman smiles too and I see that they are both young. Their eyes glint back the beauty of the night and a sweet, youthful affection. And I don’t feel uncomfortable holding their gaze.

“I’m alright… Nice view.”

The guy looks at the river like he is searching for something.

“There was a canoe down there,” he says. “A couple minutes ago. Did you see it?”

“No…”

A path of fine ripple marks curves and fades away from the bank on our side.

“Isn’t it a little late for canoeing?”

“Maybe for some people,” he grins.

The girl peers over the water as if the tiny boat might still be out there. It is probably to the far shore by now and hidden among the lights and shadows of the other metropolis.

I linger for a moment, comfortable in the couple’s presence. They seem happy to partake in the view with me—the serene water, the steady flames inside it, the calm of the night…

After a little while, I politely say, “It’s getting late… too late for me.”

Smiling exuberantly, glowing with fellowship, they wish me a good night.

I turn around and start up the long street that has brought me to the river. I can easily retrace my steps through the vacant spaces and return home.