During the first days of the pandemic, I escaped to the curious world of a mega cruise ship — an extremely pampered existence starring conch fritters, fuchsia pant suits and overzealous towel guys by the pool. No, I hadn’t foolishly jumped on a last-minute, cabin-clearance deal. I was simply riding the wake of David Foster Wallace’s famous essay, “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never do Again” — read safely from my own little land yacht, a couch so white it makes guests sipping any pink-hued drink a bit nervous. (Well, that was in the days of guests. Now, company is the repairman who contaminates my door knobs and indoor airspace.)
Thanks to an assignment Wallace received from Harper’s Magazine to write an “experiential postcard” from a seven-night luxury sail through the Western Caribbean, the essay is a porthole into the peculiar nuances of coconut-oiled cruise life. Published in shorter form in the magazine as “Shipping Out: On the (nearly lethal) comforts of a luxury cruise,” it was an oddly coincidental reading choice as ship passengers who dreamt of sun-kissed days and piña coladas ended up stuck at sea in a petri dish of Covid-19.
Fortunately, Wallace’s takeaway from his week aboard a “floating wedding cake” was not a multiplying virus with crown-like spikes, but instead a comically neurotic kaleidoscope for the senses. He smells suntan lotion on “2,100 pounds of hot flesh,” and becomes versed in Fuzzy Navels, Coco Locos and reggae elevator music. He notes brilliant cruisers who inquire if snorkeling involves getting wet, and crushes on his cabin steward, a woman name Petra who wears a perfume of “cedary Norwegian disinfectant” and provides an endless supply of fruit baskets.
I’ve never been on a cruise, nor have I ever had any interest in setting sail in the close-quartered world of micromanaged fun with a mass of humanity. However, when my March addiction to MSNBC both justified my cable bill and caused my jaw to clench while sleeping, the essay’s fastidiously funny cruise-ship observations were a much welcomed mental escape from the distressing news cycle. One elixir for stress these days is levity — and the comical dose of white-loafer wearing, 90’s camcorder-wielding characters safely eating themed buffet food was just what the doctor ordered.
In light of Wallace’s “experiential postcard,” I started wondering what a postcard from the past two-and-a-half months of pandemic life would sound like. I’m not referring to the real, frontline postcard, which would tell of the heartbreaking scenes at hard-hit New York City hospitals like Elmhurst in Queens. Those images on the “Today” show made tears pour into my cereal, which really isn’t the best way to start the day. Instead, I’m talking about a postcard from the civilians, us mere mortals whose main duty has been to stay home. Staying home kind of makes me feel like I’m turning gum wrappers into tinfoil balls for the scrap drives during World War II. Doctors, nurses, delivery people and grocery-store cashiers are all risking their health out there, while I’m here loafing around watching “Big Little Lies” season 2. By the final episode, will the secret among the middle-aged mothers of Monterrey come to light? Or will they just carry on status quo in their envy-inducing oceanfront homes? I’m not sure but my figurative tinfoil ball is growing larger by the day!
Our slide into the new normal was sudden and strange. My postcard channeling the late David Foster Wallace goes like this:
I have seen The Lone Bellow play at the Bluebird Theater off of gritty Colfax Avenue, blissfully unaware that the curtain on normal life was soon closing. I have noticed a man buttering up a foam yoga block with Germ-X from an economy-size bottle, as though he was putting sunscreen on a baby at the beach. I have followed red dots spreading across the U.S. map like chicken pox in an ‘80s kindergarten class. I have watched Stephen Colbert drink bourbon while performing his monologue to an empty studio audience. I have shifted the blame of my inability to focus from an inundation of Instagram images to the scare of a severe acute respiratory syndrome. I now know the satisfaction of finding several rolls of individually wrapped, 100% recycled bath tissue on the shelf of a small natural foods market. I have said to myself “Sh#t is getting real,” with absolutely no terrible pun intended. I have heard that my friend’s three-year-old son’s imaginary friend caught the virus. I’ve admitted to reading a New York Times article about the breakup of Governor Cuomo and former Food Network star Semi-Homemade Sandra Lee.
I have been wished “Good luck!” by a neighbor, as though we were in the “The Hunger Games.” I have woken up morning after morning in the same state of disbelief as in the days after Trump was elected. I have seen children with sidewalk chalk turn into life coaches by scrawling positive mantras in pastel colors. I have developed a newfound crush on Jimmy Fallon and his whole adorable family while watching late-night dispatches from their playful house in the Hamptons. I have debated if “Hope you’re doing well!” is still an acceptable email opener. I have crossed the street when an elderly person was coming towards me, as though they were a shadowy figure in a dark alley. I’ve watched John Legend perform a mini concert on Facebook and observed the clutter in celebrities’ Zoom backgrounds. I have perused organic produce among bandana-masked faces who look like outlaws about to stir up trouble in an Old West saloon. I’ve turned my head pretending to be on the hunt for an exotic spice when too many unmasked shoppers were entering my airflow.
I have felt the hours drip into days that tangle into weeks like the strands of a Jackson Pollock painting. I have avoided watching the Netflix series “Love Is Blind” because it’s Cheetos for the brain — until the Sunday afternoon I devoured six episodes in a row and found them delicious. I’ve heard the animalistic howls released every night at 8 p.m. from pent-up apartment dwellers, and “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow” blare from speakers while rogue backyard fireworks take to the air. I now know what coconut curry with veggies and quinoa tastes like when eaten for dinner four nights in a row. I’ve run down the middle of empty streets with my earbuds in, listening to John Prine’s “When I Get To Heaven” and I’ve replayed “Angel From Montgomery” over and over again. I have continued to watch “The Tonight Show: Home Edition” every evening and continued to wonder why I never noticed how cute Jimmy Fallon was before. I’ve laid awake until three in the morning thinking about all the things you shouldn’t let yourself think about. I now know that sometimes it takes a crisis and enough food in the freezer for weeks to bring everyone a whole lot of clarity.
I’m mailing my postcard from the uncharted waters of “these uncertain times,” the phrase spoken by gentle-voiced narrators in every commercial — especially noticeable when a sports car cruises along California’s coast. “Uncertain” is how I felt in the days of restaurants when I ordered the scallops, but the sea bass that arrived at a nearby table also looked really good. “Uncertain” is not how I feel when a coronavirus vaccine isn’t on the immediate horizon, the tally of deaths in the U.S. keeps rising and our president is off golfing in lalaland.
According to Brené Brown, the popular research professor known for her study of vulnerability and courage (and her cameo in “Wine Country”), if you don’t name your feelings, “they will eat you alive.” Suppressed, man-eating adjectives sound like the last thing we need right now. So rather than “uncertain,” here in alphabetic order, are a few other descriptors to choose from and voice aloud: anxious, antsy, afraid, concerned, distracted, distraught, frightened, fatigued, restless, sad, shocked, stressed, troubled, tired, uneasy, upset, wary, worried, vigilant.
Lucky and thankful should be in there too for myself and anyone else who is healthy and has the luxury of indecision about what to watch among a selection of Netflix, Amazon Prime and Hulu subscriptions. What a snafu — escape with a comedy. The world of movies and books is our oyster and in these darker days, a dose of levity helps keep us afloat. If you’d like to bask in the tropical glow of David Foster Wallace’s humorous essay, the shorter version “Shipping Out: On the (nearly lethal) comforts of a luxury cruise,” is available to read online at Harper’s Magazine. Just unfold a deck chair, crack open some canned pineapple and get away for a while. No sea legs required.
Note: Even if you’re not familiar with the late David Foster Wallace (and have never experienced his tedious, rambling footnotes) you probably at least know of Jason Segel (from “How I Met Your Mother” and “Forgetting Sarah Marshall”) who played him on the big screen. Segel starred as Wallace in “The End of the Tour,” (streaming on Netflix) a fictionalized account of the author’s book tour for “Infinite Jest.” The 1996 novel is still heralded by young men and weighs more than a puppy.
