I step over Dyson, the vacuum repair owner’s big golden retriever, and fill out the warrantee for the little AirStream I have bought for the new suite. Dyson raises one eyebrow, as if to say, “watch the tail” and I pat her on the head, reassuringly.
I have a very tidy young Englishman moving in and I know he will want a “Hoover”. He’s going to be a dream of a tenant. I can tell already. His button up shirt was so crisp and he had all his paperwork laid out in a clean plastic folder before I even asked him for documentation. He spoke respectfully of his mother and he can’t stand Trump. Perfect.
The woman behind the till suddenly hacks up half a lung and then once recovered, waves away my concern in a husky voice, “Don’t worry, it’s not the THING, it’s asthma.” I think, “Dear little vacuum lady, you have to close your store because you are a sitting duck here in all this dust with your respiratory deficiencies.”
I think I am fairly calm about the pandemic and yet reasonably cautious and prepared. My daughter and I have just walked around Trout Lake park with the understanding that she was not to embrace her friends and she must keep a six foot distance at all times. Or, in other words, “Keep a lying down Scott between you and everyone else”.
I hear our mayor may put us into a state of emergency so I better run my errands now, hence the hoover. I have a car full of groceries and a large salmon on ice and the sun is out and my tomato seedlings have popped. It’s a good day.
“Okay, Dearie, just need your address” says the vacuum lady.
Blink blink. “2366…no wait…3688…no…6388…oh…I can’t believe…I can’t believe I’ve forgotten my address…I’ve…I’ve recently moved…”
She peers at me over her glasses to examine whether I’ve been drinking. She offers, “You know, a phone number is just fine.”
I start in on my phone number, “604 999 4…6…60…12…oh shit…I can’t…I…I’m so sorry. I guess I must be anxious.”
I look down at my cell phone. Where do I find my own number? How can I possibly…? I take a deep breath. I rattle off four numbers. I don’t know what they are but they sound convincing to everyone except Dyson.
The vacuum lady hands me a sticker, “Never mind the paperwork dear, put this sticker on your vacuum and we will know you got it from us and keep your receipt.”
I pick up my daughter who has been round the lake with lovely Lotus and we head to Marcello’s for some pasta, knowing that tomorrow they will have to shut their doors. We walk in and say, “We are here for Italy!” Nobody smiles. They are cordial and do their job but they are worried. The maitre d and the bartender hunch over the til and talk money.
My daughter is headed for a growth spurt I think. She polishes off a goodly amount of pasta which makes me a bit relieved as her arms are white and pale enough to make me look like a negligent mother.
She laughs at me for having an appreciation for Justin Beiber’s new album. “Really honey, you can say what you want about the Beibs but Intentions? Very catchy. Not easy to write an ear worm like that.” She leans in and whispers her own confession, “I don’t usually like pop, but I think Harry Styles’ new album is beautifully produced and has a clever clean sound and all of his lyrics are positive and I don’t care who knows it.” We toast to our guilty pleasures.
Once we are home, we let our bunnies dig around in the garden, protected by their rabbit fence. A hoodie neighbour peers down from their balcony next door. My daughter is a little embarrassed that I am doing my physio stretches in the front yard. Being fifty, I don’t care.
Our boys are away on a failed ski trip and will be back tomorrow. This time has been good with my girl. Just us. And the buns. And the pop boys. A little toddler waddles by with her Mom and gasps with joy when she sees the bunnies frolicking around. I open up our gate and welcome them in, the mother looks alarmed and waves her decline in that universal, “I don’t speak your language and I don’t know where you’ve been” way. I nod. I understand. Social isolation. Of course.
We head back inside and I give my tomato seedlings a misting. Seedlings, like teenagers, do this amazing sprouting all on their own, but they need a lot of care to root well, or they get too leggy…I give the basil seedlings an extra squirt and carefully affix the protectant cover over them.
If only it was this easy.
I open up my computer and check the worldometer for the death toll. Then I check my email. Among a couple of cancelled appointments and cancelled gigs my agent writes, “Hold is the new black.”
I write to our soon to be tidy tenant who has already paid his deposit but I am guessing soon to be out of a restaurant job. I type, “We will figure this out together. Of all the worries you may have right now, do not worry about where you are going to live. You have a home.”
I don’t know if I can write my online course lesson tonight…considering I still can’t remember my address…but I think I’ll make some peppermint tea and snuggle up with my “sprout” and just…be…home.
