This week’s Dispatch aims to provide you with a multi-sensory account of a traumatic experience that took place during the early pandemic. Above, the word “dispatch” is spelled out in Braille—a reference to the blind spots we all encounter both willfully and in moments of woeful ignorance. Hoping to live up to the promise of tales to warm your hearts and make your stomachs churn, here’s a barf story I was reminded of recently when a friend asked me to get his front door, opening it only to find the man responsible for the incident, which was several years ago now.
Dan and I had only known each other a couple of days when we decided to co-host a most extravagant soirée together. We each could invite two guests, and the demographic parameters weren’t too terribly rigid. One of our allotted two would need to be someone we’d met before, ideally a regular or semi-regular, and a person we could trust to not be a handful. Our second spots could be wild cards, placing some faith in each other’s intuition and marketing savvy.
It being the early onset of a pandemic with lots of question marks behind the disease, its source, approaches to acute care, duration of lockdown, and long-term aftereffects, we obviously had no business throwing such an intimate gathering of acquaintances and strangers, but there we were — holed up in a room decked out in the requisite polyester bedspreads, an assortment of beverages, party lights, and some Mark Ronson mix to set the mood. My known known was my pal Adam, whose signature toast (“To Liberty!”) was always a great way to kick off a night of revelry. Occasionally he’d veer off course but was usually a great and well-liked addition to any group. Dan’s known known was a fixture in the community who’d developed a reputation as the trusty standby. If you could handle his tendency to turn everything into a showtune or commercial jingle, then you’d be fine having Ed at your shindig. My unknown unknown was a tatted up hipster who slipped in and out of diva mode, but he was rather attractive and sociable if not just the perfect amount of off-putting. Dan’s pick, however, was too inscrutable for anyone’s liking, especially in newly minted Covidtimes.
About an hour into our socializing, the mystery guest starts projectile vomiting out of the blue, coating everything in a film of sick. Cue the record scratch and five pearl-clutching gasps. Everyone leapt backwards in reverse cannonball motion. An hour later, the could-be vector emerged from the bathroom to find a mortified crew all packed up and ready to gtfo. What followed was a waiting game, every cough, ache, sneeze, and bland meal a possible signal toward our own private end of days. Lucky for us, COVID-19 never came knocking on our doors, but just the other day, the gentleman who had delivered the vomitous invitation came knocking on mine. I could’ve barfed.
A friend gave me some feedback I didn’t want to hear. My first post, Issue 000, outlined what I hoped to cover in each weekly e-newsletter, with six sections, all relating in some way to the pandemic and its side-effects. This section, Doubletake, was to include some things to consider as we embrace and/or create the new normal. I wanted to shine a light on the systems, products, processes, and routines that are due or are already undergoing re-evaluation. Systemic racism being one of them, I opted to include a photo I took at my friend Joel Klaff’s studio in peak pandemic. Prepping for a big move from Chicago to Atlanta, he was packing up his life’s collections, and the blackface figurine, along with an old Rolodex, were among the odds and ends. Excited for the launch of Dispatches, I walked a few friends through Issue 000. Most politely humored me, a couple just wanted me to stop talking, and one was insistent that I not use the racist image. At the end of the day, it sparked some dialogue and made me wonder if maybe the section shouldn’t just be about uncovering things that aren’t what they seem. This could come across a little too on the nose, as my friend and I still aren’t speaking after our feedback fender-bender. More to come, as things develop or don’t.
I was going to start with The Fool but need to take a half-step here and do some ’splaining. If I had known about Meghan Markle's podcast, Archetypes, I wouldn't have named this section Archetype. I would've gone with Archetypes, because a cease and desist from the Duchess of Sussex might indicate this e-newsletter's reaching the right eyeballs, or at least some high-profile ones.
Not to dwell on the matter (obviously I don't follow the royals too closely), but Meghan's attempt to break free from the labels and tropes that society has placed upon her only reinforces the inescapable correctness of our innate tendencies to use stereotypes as templates from which to build our own identities. Embracing one's archetype is a quick and easy way for people to "get you" — a powerful, out-of-the-box tool for self-expression. In using a podcast to confront the reality of the human condition, she denies a long-understood and useful shared language by peddling this kind of navel-gazing flavor of celebrity. She and all her guests will likely continue to leverage their existing archetypes instead of actually shifting the conversation to new ways of being — forever trapped in the Phantom Zone. Next week, I promise to play out The Fool, even more so than in this issue.
A funny thing happened on the way out of Chick-fil-a. With the dining rooms at quick-service eateries closed, the hunt was on for a proper place to cop a squat and woof down some waffle fries. Chicago’s lack of public space, green parklets, and outdoor seating had never been more apparent than on this particular afternoon in the early pandemic. A hot chicken sandwich grew less hot with each passing moment and no spot to squat. I would’ve settled for a raised curb, or even a covered trash bin, as disgusting as that sounds. An ornamental architectural element just dimensional enough to rest my weary paper bag never presented itself among the exclusive sleek facades on this stretch of Rush Street. I took the next left, finding myself in a small entry plaza to a Northwestern University building, featuring nipple-height polished stone planters of manicured trees and patches of bedraggled ground cover fighting for survival. Finally, a table upon which to feast. Looking around, I realize this is the unofficial designated dining annex to Chick-fil-a. Assorted sauce containers and a few used napkins signaled suppertime, as I chowed down and made my way back to the train and Lord knows onto where.
I am an idiot. No really. Who gets a router and a modem installed then leaves it for 10 years without changing the factory login and password? This guy. Who gets a new phone, doesn’t transfer the apps over, then hasn’t a clue as to what the two-factor authentication backup codes are? Moi. To add (self) insult to (self) injury, the fact that I don’t post many selfies has rendered video selfie account recovery useless. If only I had been more vain. I tried setting up a new Instagram account through Facebook, which @brilliantcrap is also still linked to, but this new handle just isn’t cutting it. Mostly videos of wrestlers (real ones) and things being launched off of buildings, the content bears no resemblance to anything I’d spent a decade curating with the help of our beloved pet algorithm. The friend suggestions really take the cake though: pairings of sober people and those in active addiction. You might think that the sober ones look happier, and I think for the most part they are. But sometimes smiles betray us while we’re really screaming on the inside. The insta-finger and its powerful muscle memory are slowly becoming a thing of the past. I’m well onto other apps that could prove healthier and more fruitful in the long run. I’m looking at you, Okcupid. 🙄
This is my mother, who died 24 years ago last week. I’d like to think I carry her curiosity of the world, subtle wit, and playful subversiveness with me as I move through this confusing thing called life. She bestowed upon me her ideals and hopes, along with many gifts which I continue to take for granted. My aunt used to say I was born with my mother’s sensitivity and her recklessness, making for a dangerous combination. May I lean into the sensitivity more this year and steer clear of reckless as much as I can. A prayer for the coming months, and an “I’m sorry” and an “I love you” to everyone who knows me.