20 new york | march 16–29, 2020
about them. Just in case. Coffee in hand,
spare beans in bag, another thought soon
followed: Couldn’t hurt to go a couple blocks
further, to Key Food, and get a few more
things. Why not? I might as well buy some
pasta, some onions, some canned tomatoes.
A bag of Goya beans, or—two. (Why not?) I
felt resourceful as I gathered these items,
mentally narrating their irrefutable practi-
cality, unsure whether my husband would
view my behavior as alarmist. I picked up
some not-yet-strictly-necessary toilet paper.
Everywhere there were Clorox wipes.
I picked up Clorox wipes. I brought my pur-
chases home. Surfaces, I thought, swabbing
doorknobs and light switches. I felt newly
aware that my doorknobs and light switches
existed in a default state of filth—cleaning
them now felt like an inadequate response
to all the filth that came before and would
come after. But, still. Why not?THAT WEDNESDAY, alone at Key Food and
at home, I was uncertain whether I was be-
having appropriately. Perhaps I was alarm-
ist? Wednesday night, I left my neighbor-
hood and received an answer: Arriving at a
reading on the Upper West Side, I went in
for a handshake and was rebuffed instantly,
with a laugh. A new and slightly altered real-
ity had arrived.
Shared anxiety can feel festive in New
York—not to say it’s taken lightly, just that
there’s a flicker of camaraderie when people
are thrown together with the same bad
thing on their minds. Backstage at the read-
ing, every greeting was an occasion to point
out that you weren’t shaking hands, weren’t
hugging, to say how much you normally
loved to touch your face. Someone had seen
two women get on the train and spray their
seats with Lysol before sitting down. We
compared the facts we had collected: that
kids didn’t seem to be getting sick, at least,
so that was good; that you could try tapping
elbows instead of shaking hands. We experi-
mented with tapping feet, which felt
strangely intimate—like playing footsie
while you both look down at your toes.
Thursday night, I watched Contagion,
like everybody else. Friday night, on the way
to dinner with friends, we talked about the
movie, how it was both scary (lingering
shots of all the surfaces that Gwyneth Pal-
trow touched before she died) and not.
Everyone in charge was so competent—
sure, Matt Damon turns slightly survivalist
to save his teenage daughter, but the scien-
tists and bureaucrats all work so hard! And
they figure it out; they find a vaccine. The
fact that things get so scary (sorry, Gwyneth)MY PRIVATE principle of subway etiquette has always gone
something like this: Pretend you’re not a body, and helpothers do the same. I try not to touch; I try not to smell.
I don’t eat. I don’t groom. I am eyes and ears only, compact
and quiet, moving toward the center of the car as best I can.
until it had just about arrived. For the
young and healthy, calibrating worry
required holding a few things in your head
at once: that you were not in danger (prob-
ably), but that others would be (certainly,
imminently), and that protecting other
people meant doing things that seemed
like protecting yourself, even though you
didn’t need to worry about yourself (prob-
ably). This felt like being worried and not
worried at the same time, with an overlaid
awareness of excess worry’s perils: What if
the run on toilet paper came when you
were on your last roll? On the one hand,
jokes about buying beans. On the other
hand, actually buying beans.
Coronavirus was slow to saturate daily
life. It started for me on Wednesday, March
4, which was after I started washing my
hands for “Happy Birthday”-times-two but
before I first heard the phrase “flattening
the curve.” Wednesday was the day when
the London Book Fair was canceled, when
coronavirus cases in New York State
entered double digits, and when the New
York Times felt the need to assure readers
that dogs were unlikely to contract corona-
virus, news it illustrated with a photo of a
poodle in a mask. Wednesday was when I
bought beans.
This began with coffee. I’d gone down the
street for a cup of coffee when it occurred to
me: Couldn’t hurt to buy an extra bag of
beans. Throw them in the freezer, forgetIt’s a pretense required to enjoy what I
want to enjoy about living in New York: the
simultaneous experience of proximity and
privacy, watching and being watched with-
out quite acknowledging either—the ability
to indulge in solitude without isolation. It’s a
pretense that, suddenly, has grown unten-
able. The truth, now unignorable: We were
all bodies all along, no matter if we’d never
clip our fingernails on the train. Whatever
thin, invisible barriers I liked to imagine
were not the kind to thwart a virus.
Navigating New York City in March of
2020 meant growing increasingly alert to
gestures and sensations that once passed
beneath notice. In the beginning, this all felt
stagy, artificial. Your eye itches: Go to rub it,
and pull your hand away. Your phone fidg-
ets in your pocket: Do you pull it out?
Someone coughs: Look up, wondering if
they made it to their elbow. Quickly rear-
range your face into the nonjudgmental
expression of a person who’s definitely not a
hygiene-vigilante panicmonger. Stand on
the rush-hour subway, holding the pole,
your bag brushing the passenger behind
you as the train stops. Imagine an oily phan-
tom print of subway pole on your left palm
until you reach a sink. What started out as
stagy soon became routine.
How worried to be, and about which
possibilities, exactly? Like climate change,
this was a catastrophe that casual observ-
ers could tell themselves was slow movingA City ofBodiesThe week we startedhoarding beans.by molly fischerTRANSMITTED________ COPY ___ DD ___ AD ___ PD ___ EICTRANSMITTED0620FEA_Corona_lay [Print]_36899495.indd 20 3/13/20 9:54 PM20 newyork| march16–29, 2020
about them. Just in case. Coffee in hand,
spare beans in bag, another thought soon
followed: Couldn’t hurt to go a couple blocks
further, to Key Food, and get a few more
things. Why not? I might as well buy some
pasta, some onions, some canned tomatoes.
A bag of Goya beans, or—two. (Why not?) I
felt resourceful as I gathered these items,
mentally narrating their irrefutable practi-
cality,unsurewhethermy husbandwould
view my behavior as alarmist. I picked up
some not-yet-strictly-necessary toilet paper.
Everywhere there were Clorox wipes.
I picked up Clorox wipes. I broughtmy pur-
chases home. Surfaces, I thought, swabbing
doorknobs and light switches. I felt newly
aware that my doorknobs and light switches
existed in a default state of filth—cleaning
them now felt like an inadequate response
to all the filth that came before and would
come after. But, still. Why not?THAT WEDNESDAY, alone at Key Food and
at home, I was uncertain whether I was be-
having appropriately. Perhaps I was alarm-
ist? Wednesday night, I left my neighbor-
hood and received an answer: Arriving at a
reading on the Upper West Side, Iwent in
for a handshake and was rebuffed instantly,
with a laugh. A new and slightly altered real-
ity had arrived.
Shared anxiety can feel festivein New
York—not to say it’s taken lightly, just that
there’s a flicker of camaraderie when people
are thrown together with the same bad
thing on their minds. Backstage at the read-
ing, every greeting was an occasionto point
out that you weren’t shaking hands, weren’t
hugging, to say how much you normally
loved to touch your face. Someone had seen
two women get on the train and spray their
seats with Lysol before sitting down. We
compared the facts we had collected: that
kids didn’t seem to be getting sick,at least,
so that was good; that you could trytapping
elbows instead of shaking hands. We experi-
mented with tapping feet, which felt
strangely intimate—like playing footsie
while you both look down at your toes.
Thursday night, I watched Contagion,
like everybody else. Friday night, on the way
to dinner with friends, we talked about the
movie, how it was both scary (lingering
shots of all the surfaces that Gwyneth Pal-
trow touched before she died) and not.
Everyone in charge was so competent—
sure, Matt Damon turns slightly survivalist
to save his teenage daughter, but the scien-
tists and bureaucrats all work so hard! And
they figure it out; they find a vaccine. The
fact that things get so scary (sorry, Gwyneth)MYPRIVATEprincipleofsubwayetiquettehasalwaysgone
somethinglike this:Pretend you’renota body, andhelp
othersdothesame. I trynottotouch;I try nottosmell.
I don’t eat. I don’t groom.I ameyesandearsonly, compact
andquiet,movingtowardthecenterof thecarasbest I can.
until it had just about arrived. For the
young and healthy, calibrating worry
required holding a few things in your head
at once: that you were not in danger (prob-
ably), but that others would be (certainly,
imminently), and that protecting other
people meant doing things that seemed
like protecting yourself, even though you
didn’t need to worry about yourself (prob-
ably). This felt like being worried and not
worried at the same time, with an overlaid
awareness of excess worry’s perils: What if
the run on toilet paper came when you
were on your last roll? On the one hand,
jokes about buying beans. On the other
hand, actually buying beans.
Coronavirus was slow to saturate daily
life. It started for me on Wednesday, March
4, which was after I started washing my
hands for “Happy Birthday”-times-two but
before I first heard the phrase “flattening
the curve.” Wednesday was the day when
the London Book Fair was canceled, when
coronavirus cases in New York State
entered double digits, and when the New
York Times felt the need to assure readers
that dogs were unlikely to contract corona-
virus, news it illustrated with a photo of a
poodle in a mask. Wednesday was when I
bought beans.
This began with coffee. I’d gone down the
street for a cup of coffee when it occurred to
me: Couldn’t hurt to buy an extra bag of
beans. Throw them in the freezer, forgetIt’s a pretense required to enjoy what I
want to enjoy about living in New York: the
simultaneousexperience of proximity and
privacy, watching and being watched with-
out quite acknowledging either—the ability
to indulge in solitude without isolation. It’s a
pretense that, suddenly, has grown unten-
able. The truth, now unignorable: We were
all bodies all along, no matter if we’d never
clip our fingernails on the train. Whatever
thin, invisible barriers I liked to imagine
were not the kind to thwart a virus.
Navigating New York City in March of
2020 meant growing increasingly alert to
gestures and sensations that once passed
beneath notice. In the beginning, this all felt
stagy, artificial. Your eye itches: Go to rub it,
and pull your hand away. Your phone fidg-
ets in your pocket: Do you pull it out?
Someone coughs: Look up, wondering if
they made it to their elbow. Quickly rear-
range your face into the nonjudgmental
expression of a person who’s definitely not a
hygiene-vigilante panicmonger. Stand on
the rush-hour subway, holding the pole,
your bag brushing the passenger behind
you as the train stops. Imagine an oily phan-
tom print of subway pole on your left palm
until you reach a sink. What started out as
stagy soon became routine.
How worried to be, and about which
possibilities, exactly? Like climate change,
this was a catastrophe that casual observ-
ers could tell themselves was slow moving
A City ofBodiesThe week we startedhoarding beans.by molly fischer