Happy-Go-Lucky

The world, as I knew it, seemed to pause, then tilt on its axis. Suddenly, the once-bustling streets of New York City, usually a symphony of honking taxis and hurried footsteps, fell into an unsettling quietude, punctuated only by the wail of sirens and the ominous rumble of refrigerated trucks meant for the departed. During those early days of lockdown, I found myself adrift in an apartment that felt both sanctuary and cage, grappling with the absurdity of stockpiling ground water buffalo meat from a farmers' market and observing the societal shifts around mask mandates and misinformation.

Amidst this global upheaval, a more personal, profound change was unfolding. My father, Lou, at 98, was in his final years, his health steadily declining. Our relationship had always been, shall we say, complex, marked by a certain fractured dynamic, and these last visits to him in North Carolina brought forth a torrent of difficult memories. Yet, there were surprising moments, glimpses of a charming and positive man I hadn't always known, suggesting that perhaps, even at the very end, people can change.

The pandemic imposed a strange, isolating routine. I found solace in the mundane, immersing myself in household chores, vacuuming the apartment twice a day, and taking long, solitary walks through a city emptied of its usual vibrancy. The absence of my beloved reading tours, the direct connection with audiences, left a void. I coped, in my own way, by indulging in peculiar observations and reflections, sometimes about trivial matters like the outdated names given to hurricanes, even as Hugh's house faced its wrath, or the sheer strangeness of navigating a world where human connection felt both vital and forbidden.

My family, as ever, remained a central, often bewildering, force. Visits with my sisters to my father's nursing home became a recurring theme, a shared landscape of exasperation and love. I found myself reflecting on our childhood, on the deep bond with my sister Amy, a bond that defined my own sense of happiness. There were moments of confrontation with my father, too, a raw airing of grievances, and his surprising apology, a concession that, in its own way, brought a strange kind of peace.

As the world slowly began to reopen, a different America emerged – battle-scarred, weary, adorned with "Help Wanted" signs and graffiti reflecting contradictory messages. Resuming my travels, the country felt altered, yet the encounters, the peculiar moments with strangers, continued to fuel my observations. There were still the absurdities, the sharp wit, but also a new tenderness, a deeper grappling with themes of grief and mortality, particularly in the wake of my father's passing. Becoming an orphan in my seventh decade brought a new perspective, a sense of what it means to no longer be someone's son.

Through it all, the humor remained, a dark, sardonic lens through which to view the world's chaos and my own internal landscape. From contemplating coffee filters as a toilet paper alternative to the darkly humorous thought of not wanting my father to "always be with me" after his death, I found ways to navigate the unsettling and the poignant. The straightening of my own teeth, a long-postponed decision, even seemed to boost a newfound confidence, a small personal triumph in a world still finding its footing. This journey, through a global crisis and profound personal loss, ultimately revealed the enduring, often absurd, desire for connection that drives us all.