Ted Littleford
The doctor, veering off topic, told me that his wife took comfort in knowing that if the world got unbearably worse, there was always the black pill. That pill crosses my mind often in these death-laden days here in New York City, the former epicenter of the Covid-19 pandemic. I wonder how often the doctor’s wife thinks of it and I hope not too much.
The black pill holds no appeal for me, locked down with the woman I love in our Brooklyn house with a stoop that lets us watch the occasional passers by, maybe exchanging greetings or just friendly nods, from the safety of the six feet. It’s our own stadium seating. And it’s a perfect platform for clapping, banging on pots and pans, whooping and hollering every evening in honor of all our frontline heroes.
I’ve never actually seen the black pill so I have no idea of its size or shape, whether it’s shiny or matte. Maybe the black is in the invisible Covid-19 droplets hanging in the air; if they’re not black they ought to be. Or maybe it’s a metaphor, never visible no matter how powerful the magnification but black as the darkest night.
The white of these black and white days is totally visible. It’s those huge trucks — new morgues for new times — street-parked outside hospitals all over the city, gleaming white, cold inside and waiting with hastily constructed wooden racks, always ready for toiling heroes in hazmat suits, some wheeling forklifts, others gently receiving and respectfully storing those lost to the virus. What must it be like for the healers heading inside for their daily life-saving efforts to pass by those trucks?
How strange it is to be in this black and white New York after decades of carefully cultivating nuance, accepting ambiguity, avoiding oversimplification, recognizing complexity and all the other hallmarks of so-called maturity. Bob Dylan, cast by so many (but never by himself) as the voice of angry, impatient youth, got there early in “My Back Pages:”
Lies that life is black and white spoke from my skull…
Ah, but I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.
And yet black and white is absolutely true and real in these days. The gigantic trucks sit waiting, impossible not to see, and the black pill, maybe never to be seen, hovers in the air and slowly settles on tables, counters, doorknobs and everything else we touch, also waiting.
The only answer lies in clear black and white rules: stay home all you can with only the ones you live with, wear your mask if you must go out, keep six feet apart, wash your hands again and again. This is the black and white that can save us and bring better days closer.
Penn Rhodeen (pictured) is a former longtime New Havener now living in Brooklyn.
Previous Pandemic Diaries:
- Firefighter Fights 2 Months Of Covid
- After ICU Shift, Coming Home To Family
- Ramadan Offers Pause During Pandemic
- Nursing Home Hell
- ICU Nurse Pivots To “New Territory”
- Covid Claims “Big E”
- Ray Of Hope Slips Through ICU Glass Doors
- The View From Inside The ER
- Doc Glimpses Coming Covid-19 “Storm”
- Day 20: I’m A Fighter, Not A Quitter
- Cops Roll With “Change Of Conditions”
- The Distance Between Us Diminishes
- Seniors Stuck In Stop & Shop Jam
- Burial In The Age Of Covid-19
