Viral Walking

I’m plodding along the Riverway in Jamaica Plain with two of my kids: Me with a fake smile tiring the muscles in my face: The kids, as teenagers, who don’t truck for free with human fakery, project the standard adolescent why-the-fuck-do-I-have-to-go-for-a-walk scowl.  

All three of us are sick of the lockdown order, sick of having the walls of our apartment exist as our horizon when we peer up from binging Netflix, and sick to our screaming-eyeballs of one another’s quirks.  

Barely fifteen minutes ago, we concluded a series of three-party, inter-familial negotiations that made the Iran Nuclear Deal negotiations look like the calming walk in the park I had been, quixotically, hoping for.  The impetus to cease hostilities, and move into negotiations, was a few small, but shatter-able, ornaments getting propelled across the apartment, at a high rate of speed, and stopping with an oddly satisfying “CRASH!” against one of the aforementioned horizon defining walls.

An abstract of the deal we reached, had it been officially recorded, would read something along the lines of: 

Whereas the father, who never liked that stupid plate from Barcelona anyway, is, albeit under extreme duress, hereby acknowledging himself to be a complete anus in stressful situations; will use commercially reasonable efforts to procure two servings of dairy fat, sugar, artificial sweeteners, and colorings, summing to no less than two hundred calories in the form of medium sized, JP Lick’s ice creams; one each, of their desired flavors, for his incredibly cool, completely unappreciative, extremely-annoying-in-close-quarters-for-long-periods-of-time offspring; in consideration of which access to the JP Lick’s retail outlet, Center Street, Jamaica Plain, will be gained by expending no less than one hundred calories.  

See, that’s the key phrase: “expending no less than one hundred calories.”  That’s how I won my, albeit pyrrhic, victory! 

Because to burn those hundred calories, we have to walk there.  And I imagine we’ll easily burn off the other hundred calories plus in the wash-your-hands-for-twenty-seconds fight and ornament tossing contest after the walk.

But now, outside in the heavily wooded park – although even the trees can’t get my blood pressure down from its 370/360 range – it’s one of those hopeful spring evenings that completely belies the hopelessness being purveyed by the no-we’re-the-real-news-they’re-the-fake-news media.  

The towering, barrel-trunked oak trees are starting to bud for their hundredth plus time; a cherry blossom, in early bloom, radiates pink-whiteness; crocuses peak out of the frozen-three-weeks-ago ground; grass arises, Lazarus-like, from the winter with a refreshing yellowish-green hue.  

In the most reliable sign of the approach of spring, the we’ve-never-actually-been-to-Canada Canadian geese are starting to get crazy again: Heads down, open bills exposing tiny white, hurtful teeth, they hissingly charge at inquisitive dogs and naively staring humans.

On the tableau of yellow-green grass, two robins engage in their unique mating ritual.  Well, … unique that is other than the traditional Irish-human mating ritual: The male and female, in rapid fire stutter-steps, cross the expansive lawns; heads occasionally cocked to listen for a worm (in the Irish ritual, this translates as; “I’m payin’ heed to every feckin’ thing in this world but you”); then, with a sudden explosion of wing power, the male, barely rising six inches above the grass, flits over to the female (this translates as; ten pints into the evening, a wink and a nod in her general direction); the female with her own show of explosive wing power, and disdain, takes off and lands a few feet away (this is her way of saying; “feck off outta that, you wouldn’t come near me if you weren’t bulging with ten pints of Guinness inside in ya”); but the female, perhaps a little too quickly, regrets her disdain, and starts stutter-stepping back into the male’s general area (“but sure come here, stop with them dirty ould looks of yours, and tell me, how your mother/sister/aunt/dog is doing, I heard they were sick/had a baby/won the lotto/got hit by a car); the male’s chest swells up, his wings cocking slightly, as he tries to make himself look as large as … well … as large as the biggest-badass robin in North America (“darlin’, ya don’t know what ya’re missin’, did ya ever see me lift a keg of Guinness with me teeth? And then drink it afterwards!”); the female stutter-steps closer to the male, who launches again, this time landing on her back.  There’s a ferocious clatter of bills squawking, wings flailing, feathers flying: It’s basically a full Irish.  The female’s bill never stops squawking, while with great focus and intensity the male settles on her back.  The whole thing takes about eight seconds, so only about half the length of an Irish-human copulation; but of course they are a bit smaller than Irish-humans.  Then he’s off, with another flutter of wings, back to listening for worms, which is really just his, let’s face it, pathetic version of flicking to SkySports. 

Because we’re still in the post-negotiation-you-suck, silence phase, I do not attempt to point this out little microcosm of Irish life taking place next to us on the grass.  

Instead we walk on through seemingly hundreds of joggers.  There’s ould-fellas out jogging in sweat-shorts so old and disheveled looking, that they were last in fashion … never; there was never a time when these simultaneously baggy and over revealing, sweat shorts were ever cool.  But now, in the teeth of pandemic, they’ve been retrieved from the back of the, until last week never opened, workout drawer, as men in their sixties jog along the pathways at walking pace, a sheen of sweat on their pallid faces, dark socks peeking out of faded Vans that look like they were bought in the 1970s, because, they were bought in the 1970s.  Whatever about the predicted baby boom coming nine months after the lockdown, the expectant mothers will be lucky if they can even get hospital beds, ‘cause they’ll already be full with these ould fellas in for knee replacements.

We walk on, passing twenty seven different young medical professionals, all in blue scrubs, facemasks – which we’ve been, ambiguously, warned need to be left for just such medical professionals to wear at work – and baggy fleeces – which I’ve been, unambiguously, warned to stop wearing in public on threat of patricide! 

Then there’s the family out walking the dog that really wasn’t made for walking:  He was made for killing other dogs, and the odd human. One mom leans back at a thirty -degree angle, as Tyson, a hundred and fifty pound cross between a pit-bull and Chewbacca, lunges at Louie, an obese Pug with a sagging belly and Sinead O’Connor’s eyes.  Louie stares back with a we’re-from-Brookline-and-you’ll-be-hearing-from-my-attorney look of fearful disdain.  Meanwhile, the little kids from both families practice reverse-social-distancing; hugging, kissing, and purposefully pushing their digits into each other mouths.

Louie’s mom kibitzes loudly, over Tyson’s mom’s screechy “be a good dawg now” recriminations, on how tough life is without toilet paper.  

“Can’t help ya,” Tyson’s mom yells over a guttural snap of fangs.  “We barely gots enough for ourselves. An’ Tyson here enjoys chewing on a roll sometimes too.  Gotta keep the pooch happy!”

We walk on, the all-too-familiar horizon of our apartment walls somehow now seeming less boring.  

There’s a mild thaw in familial relations, and I’m allowed to point out the sign that requires we walk clockwise around Jamaica Pond, except that I actually do point – a crime in teenager-world that lies somewhere between misdemeanor and a felony.

“Stop pointing, you’re embarrassing me,” my daughter snaps breathily.  “Do those fingers have to be aimed at everything.  Don’t you think I could make out what you’re talking about?”  

“Yeah. Use your words,” her brother chimes in.  “You’re always telling us to use our words instead of hitting each other.”

“Well it’s just …,” I start to say, and then realize my finger is still pointing at the sign.

“Stop pointing, or I will murder you!”

We walk on.

There’s a bunch of people fishing – hopefully COVID-19 can’t swim.  

Three twenty-something, hippy-dippy types are set up on the embankment with a mandolin, a banjo and an acoustic guitar.  They’re still warming up, or maybe that is the act?  Either way, there’s more musical talent evaporating from their open instrument cases than I’ll muster in my entire life.  

A fit looking couple rollerblade past, weaving easefully between groups of people on the incredibly crowded pathway.

We pass more sexagenarians (don’t worry, we’re not back to the robin-Irish thing; it just means sixty-somethings) plod-jogging along, feet flaring out wildly as they work on burning out those knee-joints with maximal efficiency.

We pass an Arabic family; the women dressed head-to-toe in black fabric, a tiny slit for their eyes; the men in bright designer casuals; the kids are kids – fun to watch as they exude puppy energy and innocence, getting their version of designer casuals filthy in New England spring mud. 

At JP Licks, I wait outside with our dog, Buddy.  He’s so sick of extra-long lockdown walks that lately I’ve been getting mysterious middle-of-the-night-emails warning me of the “dengars of walking two much,” and “the benyfits of driven your dog round, nocking down kats.”  

Originally, I thought these were coded messages from one of the many Nigerian Princesses-with-access-to-billions-in-stolen-money that I’ve been sharing my bank account information with.  But then in the middle of one night, cursing middle age as I rush-stumbled to the bathroom, I heard the click of the computer mouse, and the swoosh of an email departing.  

I fumbled for the light switch, splashing an ornament to the floor, thereby removing it from the list of ammunition for the next “family discussion,” finally found the switch, flooding my confusion with light.  By the time my eyes had adjusted, Buddy was lying on the sofa blinking his eyes open – though I could have sworn that, in the midst of all the fumbling and ornament breaking, I heard the jangle of his tags.  

I returned to sleep, promising myself that tomorrow, I will go ahead open all those credit cards for the Nigerian Princesses to spend down their billions. 

Now outside JP Licks, Buddy stares up at me in disdainful boredom, and I wonder will I get an overnight email on the benefits of “bying iceream for dogs.”

We walk on.

The kids enjoy their ice cream.

Buddy enjoys turning his head and staring over his shoulder at me disdainfully.

Back at the pond, we walk counterclockwise, and everyone, even Tyson, stares at me, the nominal adult in the group, disdainfully.

Up ahead we see a group violation of social distancing, as people huddle at the side of the path staring up the embankment.  When we reach them, the excitement in the air is palpable.

Halfway up the slope stands a red-tailed hawk; feathers puffed up, head whipping rapidly from side to side; his right claw sunk deep into the back of a squirrel’s neck.  The squirrel’s body lies limply, as the hawk keeps moving up the slope to get away from the social-distance-violating, gawking humans.  It’s a heavy load for the hawk.  He struggles to move, but his anxiety that some skiving human will take away his hard-won prey keeps him moving.  As is required for social-distance-violating-gawking humans, we take a video.

“How did the hawk catch a squirrel?” I’m asked.

“Coronavirus,” I answer, glibly.

“Really?  How?”

“Well, the squirrel was standing there, hands on hips, saying to himself, where did that gobeshite in the crazy shorts and ancient runners come from, and BANG!  Out of nowhere, a hawk grabs him.”

“Really?”

“Really!”

“How many ornaments are left?”

We walk on.