It Isn't. It Is. It Isn't.

A thin branch on the tree next to our porch -- the room where I have spent 80% of my waking moments in quarantine -- has grown sideways into the side of the house. When the wind blows just right, it makes a cartoonish, haunted-house sound as it scrapes against the siding: Creeeeeeeeeee. Creeeeeeeeeeeeee.

My sister texted me last week. "How would you feel about some distanced hangs this weekend?" I have seen her twice since March 16. "Josh is making dinner! Saturday? Sit and sweat in the backyard?" OK. This offer fits the guides Mike and I have set for seeing people socially, which has been rare.

1) No seeing anyone who is being a dummy about this, under any circumstances. Smell ya later, colleagues who post an unending stream of house party and restaurant selfies.

2) Outside only. Zero seconds sharing air with anyone in an indoor space, even if the windows are open.

3) Lawn chairs are plunked in the grass six feet apart from other households.

Masks are for indoor spaces with other people: grocery stores, doctor's offices. Mike and I have based these thresholds on what we've read, checked in with each other about them, decided we're OK with them. Setting them is like plunging a grappling hook into a cloud. We are keenly aware that they're based on current understanding of a virus that has never appeared in the history of the planet, understanding that could shift like sand with one Washington Post story.

I reply. "Sounds good!"

My friend Trent texts me. "When can we see you before we leave?" Trent is my oldest friend. 28 years, 6th grade. Three years ago, Trent was diagnosed with esophageal cancer and underwent a full gastrectomy. His esophagus now connects directly to his intestines, and he eats between four and six small meals a day. If he drinks beer too fast, he'll go from hammered to hungover to square one in the space of 90 minutes. Trent's cancer diagnosis was revised a year ago to Stage IV after it metastasized to his liver. His type of chemo allows him to keep his hair, but he will have a monthly infusion of it the rest of his life. Sometimes the chemo makes red-hot blisters bloom on his palms and soles. Trent is music faculty at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire, and after five years of a 192-mile daily commute, they are moving to a place minutes from campus. "We can grill. Disposable, individual everything." Trent has been vocal about COVID on Facebook. Angry. As someone with an immune system in tatters, he posts nearly every day, excoriating people who don't wear masks. He reserved some extra-profane flair for the lieutenant governor of Texas, who argued that the elderly and immunocompromised are a suitable sacrifice for the re-opening of the American economy, as they cost more to maintain anyway.

"We'll be there."

Creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Saturday afternoon. A text from Angie dings into my phone, and Mike's. "Uuuuuugh it's supposed to thunderstorm this evening. Inside with masks on?" Mike and I look at each other, and there's no discussion, just a simultaneous sag of our shoulders. I text "Sorry. We're not there yet" and then try to find the appropriate emoji. Angie isn't careless, but her perspective is just different from ours: having been deemed essential employees (food shelf non-profit), she and her husband have gone to work five days a week in an office since the beginning of the pandemic. I continue: "What about a happy hour in a couple hours, before the rain? Cocktails? Backyard?"

"Blugh. That won't work."

Creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Mike and I show up at Trent's with some cheese, crackers, pickles, and cherry tomatoes from Mike's garden. We ignore the house and walk around to the back where the chairs are set up, six feet apart. Trent comes out of the house with a "HA HA HA HA WHAT." We're wearing the same goddamn shirt, red plaid short-sleeved button-down, Mossimo collection, Target, circa 2014. Their daughter (7) is full of opinions about constellations, the color of her new bedroom in Eau Claire, and Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood's Masterclass on Netflix. Their son (3) runs out of the house, tears around with the dog for a bit, and then stands next to me in my chair and puts his hand on the crook of my arm. Um. I look up, needing guidance from anyone: what now, guys? How do we play this? I pull away, but Edwyn is 3, so he grabs my arm and pulls it back on to the armrest, laughing. His mom smiles. Trent does too. OK. OK OK OK. They're fine with this. I'm going to take my cue from them. Wait wait wait wait wait. Trent's white blood cells are shit. This is dumb. I'm getting up. This was a mistake. But Trent's family KNOWS his immune system is shot, they both work from home, and they talk about how they go literally nowhere, getting groceries delivered. And they know Mike and I have been working from home for over four months. So they're fine, and we're fine, and this is fine. Is it? It's not. It is. I-

Edwyn smooths the hair on my arms, then pushes it back the other direction, then smooths it again. He mashes his fingertip into two moles on my arm.

"Are those BOO-BOOS??"

"Nope! Just moles."

"Oh. Oh! Yeah! I got some of those, too!"

Edwyn looks back up at me, moppy quarantine hair falling over his eyes. He grins, plops his head on my shoulder, and goes back to stroking my arm. A fishhook tugs inside me, and I say to the group "This is the most affectionately someone I'm not married to has touched me in four months." Knowing nods.

Creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

6 PM Saturday. Angie texts "OK Josh is so proud of this dinner he wants to send some with you in a to-go box. Want to come pick some up?" Josh texts "Cocktail on the front porch when you get here?" Jesus, the front porch. We're idiots. We could have had dinner out there in our laps if we wanted, well over six feet apart. We're not used to thinking of our houses like this, of spaces where air will be most likely to blow a deadly, poorly understood virus away from us. We push our chairs far apart on the porch, and hey: Josh was not wrong. Dinner is delicious and a thunderstorm shatters overhead, the lightning purple and jagged.

*

We wrap up at Trent's, the heat of the day receding. Mike takes a picture of the family on their back steps, in one of their final weeks in Minnesota. We re-pack the snacks we brought. Then, we stand in the backyard. A pause. I have the same thought I've had every time I've said goodbye to Trent in the last three years, and I'm sure you don't need me to tell you what it is. It hits even harder now that they're moving. I say "Well..." and Trent responds "My son's already touched you today, Chad." And then he takes two steps forward and hugs me. A hug with purpose. Meaning. I squeeze back, fiercely. We stay like that for a beat longer than most guys from Minnesota hug. One last wave to the kids, and we leave.

Creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

We're not even home yet when Sarah posts pictures from the afternoon on Facebook. I see them in the car. The picture of Trent and me is a good one. It's a really good one, actually. Our matching shirts, me with my jokey, open-mouthed over-smile (which is how I've decided to look fun and youthful! in my late 30s,) and my hand under my chin, senior-picture style, and Trent looking at the camera sideways with a wry smirk that's genuine but has seen some shit.

And we are definitely not six feet apart.

And the rat-a-tat-tat record cranks up again: Jesus God shit shit shit how fucking irresponsible Trent is immunocompromised was it really worth it to take that chance for one afternoon wait wait when Sarah held her phone up for a picture Trent plopped down in front of me and then got right back up again when the photo was taken and went back to his chair which was six feet from mine and we're all outside anyway but shouldn't we have masked up Trent's cells Trent's cells Trent's cells but how can you eat with a mask on and besides we've been good and they have too like actually good not McSweeney's good and I was taking my cues from them but shouldn't I have held the fucking line and isn't this what a collective slide into carelessness looks like one barbecue one photo and then months on a ventilator and brain damage the rest of your life but we're dealing with things we were never designed to deal with and aren't we just doing our best but shouldn't your best be even better Chad and you can do better but there's no use in trying to do better and

Mike pulls into the garage and we're back home.

*

The New York Times's red line graph of new American cases reaches back to March.  No smooth, European bell curve for us. Ours twists upwards, like a bent coat hanger.

Pandemics are long and fraught, but they end. Pandemics end. They end. They end. They have to.

They have to.

Creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.