134 ft²

by Aleksandr Smirnov

The walls were now bare. My roommate packed away his posters and I myself never had any. Melancholy seemed to be leaking out of every corner, falling on me drop by drop. I decided to put emotions into action. With the “LATINO! Greatest Hits” blasting in my ears my mind was at ease. Or at least it was pretending to be. Soon enough the beds were moved, the windows were washed, and the floors were cleaned. Yet even then I did not allow the music to stop. It protected me. Protected from the voices coming from the hallway. The rattling, shouting, walking, cursing, crying, laughing, and, most importantly, the goodbyes.

I am not an emotional person. The last time I cried was at my grandfather's funeral. Nonetheless, waking up on that rainy morning forced me to admit the opposite. The building was now silent. I quickly got into the shower, trying to wash away the blueness which I was now soaking in. It was a relief yet not a cure. A few minutes later, armed with a cup of tea, I sat down.

The room did not improve. It began to seem that I was Dostoyevski’s Raskolnikov or Baldwin’s Giovanni. Whichever the case, I wanted to be neither. Selfishly, the thoughts of a global pandemic did not bother me as much as the thought of home. Everyone says to stay home. I cannot go home. Travel bans. For two months I need to be alone in this room. Need to make these 134 ft² my new home.

I got up to open the blinds. The light slowly crawled into the room — it was white and cold, like the LEDs you see in hospitals. I turned away from the window, facing the bed. Hundreds of dust particles were drifting peacefully, looking for a place to settle down. Suddenly, a fearful thought paralyzed my body: was I not alone?

The presence of a predator in the room seemed unquestionable. Although its exact position was impossible for me to locate, the intentions were clear — infection. Every surface had become covered with hundreds of tiny imaginary urchins, which, frankly, seemed more terrifying than real ones. It did not matter how many windows I washed or how many floors I cleaned. There would always be that one spot that I missed. That’s where it would get me.

How could it get here? Did it leach onto my roommate? Or his father who was helping him pack? As far as I could remember, neither of them were coughing. Yet again, people can go up to fourteen days without showing any symptoms. I examined the surfaces. Four hours on copper, twenty-four hours on cardboard, and seventy two hours on plastic and stainless steel. I had everything except copper.

Somewhere at the bottom of me, I felt a pinching feeling of self-doubt. A week before, I was in the city filled with coffee shops and hopeless dreamers who refuse to walk — Los Angeles. I used the metro practically every day. There are now 6,360 cases there. My adventures, however, did not stop in the state of California, which is now in a state of lockdown. I later spent three days in an adult’s Disneyland, surrounded by exaggerated American capitalism — Las Vegas. People there are notorious for being too intoxicated to walk, let alone wash their hands. 1,608 cases.

I was looking for a predator when the predator might have been in me. The only way to find out was to wait for it to crawl out, to let it show itself in an unexpected cough, sore throat, fever, or difficulty breathing. The incubation period is two weeks. As I write this, it has passed.

The realization that, despite the odds, I am healthy changed my perspective on the situation that I am in. Beforehand, I failed to acknowledge the privilege of having a safe place to stay. Not losing employment. Not getting sick. Having health insurance in case I do. Calling my parents every day. Knowing that they are safe. Knowing that I am safe. Knowing it will all be over soon. Or at least having the hope to believe it will.

I look at my room again. The walls do not feel as bare.