Like a spider stealthily biding its time, the coronavirus finally snared me in its web. Having evaded it for two years, I imagined I might do so forever, even as others around me fell prey. In a breath, an instant, I was ill, infected, infectious. The world had spun out of control, and answers were scarce.
Isolating at home provided endless hours to ruminate on everything I was missing. Among my host of worries, was what Carlos would think of my sudden disappearance. There was nothing to be done. I had no way to contact him. We knew each other’s first names, but were otherwise just fellow passengers who rode the BART train together.
Did he think I had started taking the bus? That I’d been fired? Maybe that I was in the hospital, or had died? Would he feel abandoned that, without a word, I’d stopped showing up for the 8:07 train? Or worst of all, did he not even care?
Most likely, I reasoned in my reasonable moments, he had taken my absence in stride and had started reading a book to pass the time. This led to wondering what book he was reading, and how I might find out, because if I knew, then I could be reading it too, and then we might discuss it. However impractical, the thought cheered me. It gave me a problem to set my mind to, and though I did not succeed in solving it, I eventually concluded that not knowing the title was preferable, so that I could look forward to him telling me about it.
On the other hand, if he was not engrossed in reading, maybe he had been discovered by someone else looking for company on their morning commute. In fact, I predicted with gloomy certainty, this was doubtless what had occurred. Someone far more interesting, well-informed and witty, had broken the customary silence among passengers, and had now supplanted my role.
When Covid brought my life to this abrupt and unnerving halt, it was only two weeks after meeting Carlos. It had seemed that we might be taking a shine to one another, at least I imagined this to be true, but we were just getting acquainted, as travelers do, while passing the time enroute to their destinations. I could barely call us friends yet, and it was ridiculous to be concerned about him at all, so my being concerned was another reason for concern.
At some point I had realized that we were arriving at North Berkeley station at the same time each day, and I’d see him pacing, studying the tracks, the long tunnels that stretched into blackness, the steep staircase to the world above, and the route maps encased in glass. No seasoned commuter cares about the architecture of the station, or looks at those maps, so clearly he was new. One morning, as I noticed him noticing things, he must have become aware of my noticing.
He offered me a quiet, “Good morning,” which I returned, and this struck us both as amusing. I started to laugh and before I had a chance to be as embarrassed as I might have been, he was laughing too, and suddenly it was as if we were co-conspirators. He had a disarming smile, that seemed devoid of motive or artifice, and our conversation flowed easily.
After that morning, we rode to San Francisco together each day, sitting side by side on the train, as if it were not unusual to do so with a veritable stranger. I soon felt that I’d encountered a long-lost friend, who wanted to catch up on the time we’d missed since last seeing each other. I learned about his job with an engineering firm that he felt lucky to have landed, his large family in São Paulo, how he’d managed the first months of the pandemic, alone at home with his two cats, and his worries about the demise of the planet.
My eleven days in isolation felt like eternity. Of course there was the sickness itself, that arrived like a flash flood on a desert landscape, sweeping me up without a second thought. It receded in its own time, as floods do, and by day six I felt I had nearly recovered. However, worries and scurrying thoughts only seemed to magnify as the days wore on. So I was jubilant with relief when at last I tested negative, and was cleared to return to work.
The next morning, arriving at the BART station, I was more apprehensive than I cared to admit. Would Carlos be there? And if so, what sort of reception would I get? Coming down the escalator, I spied him waiting for the train in his usual spot, hands in his pockets, sunk deep in thought. The book I’d imagined he’d be reading was nowhere to be seen, and the fascinating interloper I’d dreamed up was missing too.
I approached unnoticed until right in front of him, when I shared a subdued, “Good morning,” with a smile which I hoped conveyed, “I’m happy to see you,” without appearing overly invested. At first he seemed off-kilter; surprise flickering across his features, as if he might prefer to be left alone with his thoughts, rather than having a woman he barely knew striking up a conversation. Aware that I might be overthinking things, a habit I was born with, and that I often think of putting an end to, but that requires more thinking about the overthinking, and well you see where that leads, it did occur to me, that he might just be preoccupied, wondering if he’d remembered to turn off the stove, or lock the front door when leaving the house.
After a few seconds his face lit up, smile spreading wide, “Hey, it’s you!”
“Hey, it’s me. Resurrected.” So my absence had been felt. My spirits lifted.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes. Everything is okay,” which now seemed to be true. I had not yet found words for the sense of wonder that had overtaken me at being among people again, returning to my daily routine, and had I tried to explain, I supposed it would not make any sense.
“That’s good, really good,” he nodded, with what seemed a hint of relief, if I wasn’t reading too much into it.
“If I’m not intruding, where have you been?”
Before I could answer, overthinking kicked into high gear. Mine had been an undramatic illness, yet I’d been engulfed with a rattling, pervasive unease the entire time, for which I had no excuse. After all, I was one of the lucky ones–my case, though thoroughly unpleasant, was not serious, and I’d recovered without treatment. I had no idea how Carlos might respond to hearing of my illness, and I had somehow neglected to plan what I would say should it come up. Would he feel uncomfortable talking to me? Be afraid to sit nearby? Would he think me careless and foolish for having caught Covid in the first place? As I hesitated, he seemed to sense my discomfort, and dove in to rescue me; maybe believing I was reluctant to share something deeply personal, that had caused my absence.
“So, you were off planning a revolution, I suppose. You seem the type,” he suggested, a glint in his eye.
“How did you know? That’s it exactly.”
He leaned in, “I understand revolutions. I’m revolving all the time. Spinning in circles. Going nowhere.”
I had no clue if he meant to be humorous, or was sharing something of import, and he offered nothing more. His expression remained grave, so I disguised my puzzlement with a smile.
He was the only engineer I knew, and knowing nothing about engineering or the minds of engineers, put me at a disadvantage that I was now keenly aware of. Was this something another engineer would understand? Was he pulling back the curtain on his inner world, sharing a sense of vertigo, disconnection, being untethered, things I could certainly relate to? Or was he confessing a wish to revolt against the senseless loss of life taking place on the planet, but finding it impossible to do so? Should I worry about his mental health?
As I was weighing these possibilities, I was transported by the image in my mind’s eye of a pinwheel, like those I held as a child, the blur of thin silver and blue blades mesmerizing, as they spun round and round. Spinning in circles. Going nowhere. Revolving all the time. A toy, operating on a puff of breath or a breeze, and spinning to delight those who cared to watch its twirling motion.
And then I blurted out, “Well that sounds like life: revolving, spinning in the wind, with no purpose but to keep twirling in space, till we die. Like a galaxy, a pinwheel, the earth.” I twirled my finger around a few times in the air, as if he needed a demonstration of these words, then stopped myself. Was I really reminding him that we live on a planet that turns on its axis and orbits the sun? He probably designed mechanical gizmos I wouldn’t even understand.
“I mean, of course—”
“I know, I know,” he chimed in with a gentle wave of his hand, saving me from tripping over my words once more, “It’s okay. You certainly don’t owe me an explanation for taking a few days off. It is true isn’t it, that we run in circles, like cats chasing our tails, round and round. Would you agree?”
The train swayed into view and came to a stop, while I pondered these words from my new old friend.
