Hiding Out

I used to think that travel was the ultimate trial of a relationship, but now that my partner and I are cloistered inside during a pandemic, I see that this is actually a greater test.

I’ve read some accounts of cities through which the pandemic has already passed and the lock-down restrictions are being eased. In at least one of those places, the divorce rate has spiked, and I can certainly understand why.

My partner and I still seem to like each other, which is a bonus. But if I keep sneaking up on him and saying things like, “Canadians have been told to stay two meters apart, while Americans have been advised to keep six feet away, which is a little less. Do you think that this is making all the difference? That the thing that'll save us is the metric system?” his patience is likely to end soon.

We’ve mostly coped by being as weird as we can be. For example, I’ve been reading a book on taxidermy art, and to my delight, I found do-it-yourself instructions at the back of the book.

“Say something turned up dead in our yard, and I tried taxidermy for myself. What would you think?” I asked my partner, while reading up on why the Nine-Banded Armadillo isn’t a good taxidermy candidate (there’s a possibility of leprosy transmission).[1]

“Well,” he said, rubbing his face exactly the way Health Canada has advised us not to, “I wouldn’t like it, but I can’t say I’d be terribly surprised.”

In addition to this possible new hobby, there is now a tent in our living room. The tent also has a string of Christmas lights, for ambiance, and an overhead reading-light. The tent has been up for a solid week now, and is filled with bubble wrap that I like to pop while my partner watches documentaries and gives me the side-eye.

“How many people do you think they’ll find murdered after all this is over?” I asked him from my tent, while he was trying to learn about the bombing of Pearl Harbor.

“At least one.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Now, I can joke around all I want, but I’m aware that the world is on fire, and there are people that I worry about. We all do.

Days before all this hit, I was out dropping off some books to an elderly acquaintance of mine. He’s ninety-five and still a gentleman, though a gentleman who reads the heaviest books you can get a hold of.

We were leaving his apartment at the same time, and though I tried to carry his books, he insisted on hefting them onto his walker and carrying them that way to the elevator. It charmed the hell out of me, and I can’t help but worry about how he’s doing through all of this.

But I also know that the best thing I can do for everyone is not go out. So, I guess I’ll just be here in my tent, finally getting around to reading the Odyssey and wondering what the world will look like when this is over—while my partner rubs his face and insists that I give him a reason for why I’ve decided that I suddenly like opera, but only at full volume.

[1] Taxidermy Art: A Rogue’s Guide to the Work, the Culture, and how to do it Yourself by Robert Marbury (2014).

Edmonton. 2019.