The virus spread, we walked. The virus ebbed, we walked.
December 15, 2020
It’s usually around 10 p.m. that I turn the corner from Baker to Page Street, pausing for a moment to let Greenberg do his sniff-and-squirt cakewalk against a favorite piece of shrubbery. I’m alone, alert and aware of other people scurrying or strolling.
I first saw her walking toward me one night in late August. The woman’s pace quickened as we approached each other. Her posture — shoulders forward, head stiff — looked aggressive, and more so the closer we got. It was dark, she wore a mask and long bangs covered her forehead, so I couldn’t see much of her face.
Finally, as we passed each other on the sidewalk, she muttered in a tone so annoyed she might have been pointing a finger at me, “You ought to be wearing a mask.”
I’d been wearing a mask every time I went outside, but for that last walk every night, it seemed as though I deserved some reward — breathing freely — for pulling on my hiking boots when I felt like putting on my pajamas.
Really, Dr. Fauci, there was no one on the street with whom to strike up a potentially germ-trading conversation. If I happened to encounter a friendly fellow dog-walker, a quick hi could be traded from at least two leash lengths away.
I could have explained all that to the woman scolding me, but it was an impossible defense to make in real time. How could I explain aloud to her that I never talked to anyone on these evening walks?
So I remained silent. But even in the dark, I could feel her glare. I’ll probably never see her again, I thought.
Three nights later I did. We were a half block away when we laid eyes on each other, she apparently recognizing my silhouette as I recognized hers. She made a big show of stepping out into the middle of Page Street, which the city had closed to through-traffic. Oh, don’t be so dramatic, I thought.
“Where’s your mask?” she asked. “You’re supposed to be wearing a mask.” Her tone was even angrier than the first time. “COVID doesn’t rest at night. Everyone has to wear a mask.” I tried to look away, and she looked down. “And you can’t get away with not wearing one,” she said to me, “because you are cute.” I believe she was referring to my dog, who was maskless, too.
I took this second beating silently, too. But I suffered pangs of guilt. I’m a responsible person, and I didn’t want to be perceived as selfish. If I could just explain, I thought, she wouldn’t be angry at me. Ah ha, she would say, Now I understand.
Two days later, at four in the afternoon, I was on Fell Street walking to the supermarket a block from my house. The sun was out, and I had the dog with me on-leash. I was wearing a mask.
A woman walking in the same direction came up behind me and we walked in sync for a half-block or so. She reached down to pet Greenberg’s head. It’s a lovely day, we said. Then she peered at me and I peered at her. “He sure is cute,” she said.
The way she said the word struck me, and I focused, looking at her posture, the set of her shoulders, the outline of her hair. As she strode ahead, I pondered whether my hunch was right and whether she’d recognize me and get angry all over again.
She was a few steps in front of me when I called out: “Excuse me,” I ventured. “Are you the woman I see at night, who tells me to wear a mask?”
“Yes, I am,” she said. She didn’t sound surprised; she’d obviously recognized me.
I raced to catch up. “I’m so glad it is you,” I said, smiling my biggest please-like-me smile from behind my mask. “I’ve been wanting so much to tell you that I only go maskless at night, when I don’t talk to anyone.”
If I’d imagined absolution, that wasn’t happening. “COVID doesn’t go to sleep at night,” she said, repeating her previous warnings. “I work in a hospital, and I have to wear(a mask all day.”
As we reached the corner, she bent down to pet the dog’s head again. I was turning left for the market; she was going straight ahead, presumably on route to work. She had a few employee badges slung on a chain around her neck. “Peace be with you,” I said.
A few evenings later, during Greenberg’s 10 p.m. stroll, I saw her again on Page Street. This time, I was wearing a mask.
It was our fourth encounter. We couldn’t see each other smile, but, from the tone of her hello and the set of her shoulders, I was sure she was.
“There must be a cuter dog somewhere,” she said the next time we met, “but I can’t imagine where.”
“Did you have an easy day at work?” I asked.
“Oh, sure,” she said.
By the beginning of October, we had traded first names. Now, I look for her silhouette in the dark, and she says she looks for mine. “It is a pleasure meeting you,” she said when we introduced ourselves, and I said it back to her.
My mask, as it has been every night since our third meeting, was in place. COVID doesn’t sleep at night, and I wouldn’t want to make her angry.
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November 10, 2020
Biden is holding his first post-election press conference today. The real news is that the President is refusing to start the transition process. This would be enabled, say the news reports, by the release of GSA (General Services Administration) funds that have been set aside for the transition. Such release would have to be authorized by a certain officer in the GSA. She hasn’t done so yet.
During my late morning walk with Greenberg, I stop on Page Street to chat with an older guy (probably my age) who sits on the stoop there and is the owner of a particularly majestic golden retriever, a sweetheart in a breed known for its serenity.
The man, another passer-by and I are chatting about the outrageousness of the Washington situation. The man says that his father used to have that job in the GSA, as an authorizer of transition funds. I think, as I think far too often as a result of journalism experience, there is always a local angle.
A few weeks later, on my way home from an expedition to Haight Street, I am on the other side of the street, passing the house where the Golden and her owner live. He is again sitting outside on his stoop while his dog takes short forays up and down the block, sniffing around the trees in search of commodious pee opportunities. When she wanders too far away, he calls her back and she returns without any fuss, without even a raised voice.
“Bitch,” I suddenly hear him scream, and when I look across the street to see what the scream is about, I see a pretty young woman sashaying by the front of his house. “You’re a bitch,” he yells at her. She pretends not to hear, keeping her head straight and staring at the sidewalk in front of her. “You’re a bitch,” he repeats.
He was masked, she was maskless.
“I hope you die,” he yells at the woman, who by now is walking past the front of the house next to his. . The dog licks at some weeds in a patch of green near the curb.
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November 19, 2020
I am walking with Greenberg and Heidi on Haight Street, the sidewalks of which, despite corona warnings, bustle with a fair number of pedestrians. We pass a young man (just the phrase “young man” makes me feel like an “old lady) in leather vest, black jeans. He’s not quite a scruffy vaguely threatening druggy street person, but from the looks of it, he’s not a tech bro home-owner, either. He looks at us with no particular animosity or interest, then half- smiles, an expression I wouldn’t have noticed had he been wearing a mask, as we are.
Heidi doesn’t hesitate. “Darling,” she says, “why aren’t you wearing a mask?” The question is posed without a hint of censure; all she’s expressed is concern for his well-being. The question and the tone in which it was posed takes me back 35 years, when an office mate asked me, “Why are you still smoking?” And that was it, I stopped smoking. He wasn’t blaming me for doing something bad; he was just curious. Heidi’s question, no matter her motives, was posed the same way.
That’s just the way the young man accepted it. He reached into a pocket of his vest, pulled out a mask, and put it on. Just before it hid his mouth, I could see him smiling, a broad grin this time..
“Darling” is a word I never use, whether as a term of endearment to someone I love or as an adjective. But Heidi’s deployment of it is perfect. She is leaping over the fence of social convention; she knows her implication is too personal and could, in fact, spur the stranger to some nastiness. But saying something out of concern for a stranger is a stronger statement than any expression of anger she could have made.
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May 13, 2021
Although the rules for masks outdoors have relaxed, I’d still been wearing mine for the late-night walk, because I feared running into Bonnie, and I didn’t want her to scold me.
But two nights ago, when we crossed paths at 9:50, she said, “You don’t have to wear a mask anymore. Dr. Fauci gave us permission.” “I’m only wearing it because I’m afraid of you,” I said. And we both laughed.
“You know,” I said to Bonnie when I ran into her tonight, “there have been good things about the pandemic. It was that whole mask business that resulted in us meeting.”
She was still wearing her mask -- because she works in a hospital, she said -- but I’m sure she was smiling as broadly as I was.
In early June, when we met, she said, “Give me a hug.” And there at Page and Baker, we hugged.