Piercing through my head as if needles of ice, my phone bellows under my ear with my most hated sound on the planet: my iPhone alarm.
It takes me a moment to remember why I had set the alarm so early. The sound of rain throwing itself on the wet asphalt helps me come to my senses, and remember why I have to wake up, and also figure out what to say when I pick up the phone to call.
“Hello, Galpin Jaguar, this is Matt speaking.”
“Hey, Matt,” I feel my voice revive with a gasp and a cackle as it breaks an hours’-long oath of silence. “This is Stepan, I’m calling for my 9:00am appointment. I’d like to reschedule…” should I give the reason?… yes?… no? “…given the weather,” I concede without having to.
“Not a problem, how about…” my mind rushes to slide back into slumber as Matt pauses to shuffle through the calendar… “tomorrow same time?”
“Sure, thank you. Stay well.”
It wasn’t an excuse. It’s a thing: I postpone appointments where I have to drive a distance under moderate or heavy rain. I feel confident when I am in the driver’s seat, yet sometimes, those around me feel way too confident when they’re in their driver seats in this weather. Especially when nowadays, the freeway is so… free. And so, wherever I can, I pass.
* * *
A full day passes, and like a jack-in-the-box waiting to pop out at the worst possible time, my phone bellows once more under my ear. My hearing comes to life before my eyesight does, and it doesn’t pick up any reason not to drive the 20 miles. I take my shower, decide against having coffee on an empty stomach, and head toward the service shop.
The entire dealership has its walls torn down; the inside is exposed like a factory post-Chernobyl, and the only thing separating one’s eyes from the scaffolding within is the chilly morning air. Where walls once stood, a six-foot wire fence demands authority now. I look past the fence and recognize the spiraling staircase that I walked up on a gorgeous May day in 2017, one day after learning I had passed the California Bar Exam, to sign the paperwork to a black convertible I had dreamt for so long and had negotiated for a month. The staircase was not shiny anymore; it was covered in dust and construction instead.
The sign on the curb points me in the opposite direction, to the “temporary home” of the service shop. My eyes follow the exterior sides of what seems to be a gigantic circus tent – suspended on the sides and the roof with wires with the resulting gaps covered by stretched canvas fabric – which goes up… and up… and up beyond sight. I walk toward the sliding entrance doors, and right before I step in, I see another sign, informing guests that the Starbucks coffee bar has also moved to the “temporary home.”
As much as I am a coffee snob, I would look forward to the visits to the service shop for the opportunity to grab coffee while I waited – only because it was on the house. As a confessional, on my way here earlier this morning, I wondered if the Starbucks would be open. Apparently, it is. Except today, I didn’t have a stomach for coffee.
Jason takes care of me. A few initials here… and here… and one more here… and sign at the bottom, and I’m on my way with the loaner vehicle I’m given.
* * *
Bringing my phone back to life after having put it on airplane mode, I receive a voicemail. It’s Brian from the service shop, and my car is ready for pick-up; they’re open until 4pm today and from 7am tomorrow. In no particular rush to head back out, I throw my phone on the desk and get back to my work. 16 minutes later, the same phone number appears on the screen.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Stepan, this is Brian from Galpin Jaguar. I left you a voice message earlier, your car is ready. However, our management decided just now that we will be closing the shop tomorrow for fourteen days. If you’d like the car before then, please stop by to pick it up by 4pm today.”
I glance on my laptop screen: it’s 2:06pm.
“Coming now, thank you, Brian.”
Within those couple minutes, my mental hesitation whether to pick up the car later that day or to leave it for tomorrow is instantly resolved. I motion to Aida that I’m heading out; she nods back with her eyes, midway into a bicycle crunch with her online workout class.
By the time I reach the loaner car, a host of soundbytes and text flutter through my mind – phrases and sentences I’ve heard and read over the past couple days. Total lockdown for two weeks. Don’t go out unless you absolutely have to. Wear a mask, always. The peak is yet to come.
And now, this. It all fits in.
I notice the two Supermario Cart arcade games standing in the far left corner of the white circus tent as I walk back in. Always surrounded by yelling children, today they’re empty. The Starbucks barista seems to be cleaning up; she’s wearing a mask and blue gloves which clash with the bright orange gloves worn by the rest of the entire staff at the service shop. I get distracted by the arrows that go along the periphery of the tent, touching two of its corners before arriving at their intended destination: “Restrooms.” I look back, and the Starbucks barista is gone.
Brian comes back with my paperwork. A couple initials here… and here… and sign there at the bottom. I feel rushed by these commands and want to tell him to let me take my time… but I resist this lawyerly urge and mark the paper with my pen where I have to.
My car pulls up, and I drive off.
* * *
Rushing against the clock to get to the post office, I find myself motioning to Aida that I’m heading out again. She’s in the middle of a counseling session, having closed herself off in the bedroom for confidentiality, forehead leaning against hand as she listens intently to the voice on the other line. My waves are greeted by her pensive oblivion, and I close the door slowly and head off.
I make it on time to the post office.
Envelope sealed, postage paid, and postmark placed, I make eye contact with the lady on the other side of the protective double plastic screen that was not there a few days ago. She’s the associate that I will let people standing behind me pass ahead when another associate calls for the next person waiting in line, just to make sure that she is the one who accepts my envelopes and bids me farewell. They’re all professional, but she – even more so; the kind of associate that you say “absolutely!” to when she asks if you can fill in a quick survey about her performance.
“You guys are putting yourself at so much risk to do this. Thank you for keeping USPS running, I really appreciate it.”
Hovering above the noseline of her mask, her eyes glance to the two sides, and she looks straight.
“I’m not sure how long we’re going to be able to do this. People aren’t showing up to work.”
Her voice is calm, but I can sense the alarm in her look – a genuine alarm, led not by self-interest, but by her commitment to keep the wheels of this bedrock of American infrastructure turning.
“Oh, I see… please stay safe, and thank you once more” is what I offer in response as I reel in disbelief. She replies with a hearty thank you.
I turn on my heels and start to walk out. The person near the inside door holds it open for me; my mouth hiding behind my makeshift mask, I smile and nod with my eyes; he reciprocates. There is a long hallway to cross before I finally make it outside; the lights are dimmed and the doors are closing. It’s a few minutes till 6:00pm. The pellet of rain drops are beating against the windows which are themselves blurred by the torrent of water cascading against their surface. I look over at the endless rows of brass post-office boxes to my left, standing side by side in unquestioning solidarity, having stood their ground for more decades than I can imagine. The light that’s entering from the windowed exit door on the other end of the hallway reflects the future that awaits me outside onto the floor leading to my feet. It casts a long, faded white carpet of light against the solid floor of the post office, polished more so from age than anything else.
I push the door open with my shoulder and feel the spray of rain find its way to my face.
Sticking my hands in my pocket, crouching my back out of instinct, and hastening my pace, I make my way to my ride, all the while repeating in my mind as if in silent prayer, as if a solemn vow:
This, too, shall pass.
This, too, shall pass.
This, too, shall pass.
Chronicles 