“I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.” — Letter from Edgar Allan Poe to George Washington Eveleth, 4 January 1848. Image courtesy of the Harry Ransom Center.

First the data (Evening April 10, 2020):

The number of confirmed U.S. cases currently exceeds 500,000. Trends based on 3rd order trend line continue on track to reach ~600,000 by Easter, and ~1,100,000 by the end of April. The curve fit shows some bending toward the end of April. This is good. Current estimated fatality rate is about 3.74%, corresponding to over 40,000 deaths by April 30. The fatality rate has been increasing every week. This is unexpected since we thought additional testing would increase the denominator. Reason is unclear at this time. As usual we need more data.

I know I promised less gloom. It’s just that Covid and its repercussions remain simultaneously fraught with equal parts certainty & uncertainty: statistics & predictions. It can drive you crazy. Not me of course, though the following tale may suggest otherwise. No statistics, no predictions below. Is it gloomy? A simple diversion? A gloomy diversion? I’ll leave that up to you. It’s a bit lengthy, so pour yourself a nice glass of port. With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe, a simple tale of this time…

Shelter in place

The truck rumbles to a stop out front, but by the time I reach the door the box is on the portico and the masked man is scurrying away. I wipe down the package and crack it open. Three bottles: 2 tawny, 1 ruby. As long as I’m stuck here I might as well run a few taste tests. Completely justifiable. By the time I retire to my well-aged recliner the ruby is uncorked. I usually favor tawny but these interminable weeks of being cooped up have irked me into an adventurous state of mind.

My Waterford, filled to a finger below the rim, invites a sweet sip. As it touches my lips I see it: an intruder! A speck in motion! A picnic ant, frantically exploring the base of my glass. To drink or not to drink. I lower the glass to the side table with only the slightest of trembles. He’s edging around the stem as though trying to decide whether to attempt the ascent. Can he smell the wine? Is it a he? How do you tell? Having studied ants (of course) I know workers are usually male. We’ll stick with he. A tentative move up the stem then a scramble back to safety, antennae wavering: is he re-thinking it? Resting? 

I sometimes find myself in a similar state.

Where did he come from in mid-winter? I hunt down the box. Empty. The bottles? Clean. But — only one ant? Alone? Not dissimilar to me with my crackling fireplace and walls dense with books, most read, some wanting. How strange. Not that these aren’t strange times, this being the year of the plague and all.

The little guy  — I’ll call him Azazel – clambers off the glass. Azazel? Where did that come from? He’s hard to see on the mahogany until his movement betrays him. We’re built that way, to detect predators and other living things by their motion. I assume viruses move, but they can’t be seen without an electron microscope. And while there is debate about whether they’re alive or not it, is dreadfully clear that some are vicious predators. As we all know. An accidental glance reveals a blur of snow outside.

“It’s snowing.”

Azazel ignores me. Talking to an ant?

Before I know it my thumb is hovering over the little beast. But he’s done nothing to deserve squishing. Maybe a flick into the snow?

After a few sips, then a few more, a notion squirms into my brain. Now this is an ant we’re talking about here. I’m a grown man. A presumed scientist. Which by the way doesn’t automatically qualify me as mad. In fact, I consider myself quite the opposite in a humble introverted sort of way. But even introverts can get lonely. No, not like Tom Hanks and Wilson on some desert island. My home is safely ensconced against a broad stand of walnut trees on one side and lost among unending fallow fields on all others. I don’t mind being alone – when it’s my choosing.

Mad or not, I fill a shallow saucer with water and return to the little guy. He’s at the edge of the table, making it easy to entice him onto the rim of the now empty glass. With the glass set mid-saucer there is no escape unless he attempts a suicidal test of surface tension. A quick trip back to the kitchen and I’m back with a crumb of stale fig bar to drop into the glass, where it slowly purples up dregs of port. Hope Azazel doesn’t mind the wine.

I head upstairs. My mind wanders to pantry and freezer and power bills. They’re saying another month now… Upon waking I head down to the office to see how my little friend is doing. Friend? Fine. Maybe I am a little mad after all. Blame the plague.

He’s racing around the rim like the White Rabbit. I bet he thinks he’s getting somewhere. The soggy crumb looks untouched, but how to tell? I ease him onto my finger. Let’s see, where should we go? A scan of the room reveals… nothing. Back to the rim he goes. Seems happy enough. Does he need sunlight? Onto the window sill, slightly precarious and a little drafty but he should be okay for now. He’s too tiny to rock the boat. 

That night I uncork a tawny. Too stringent. Have to make a note of that. Azazel seems to be sleeping. Do ants sleep? I’ll have to look it up. Over the next few days Azazel’s lodgings improve – a crystal pitcher in a half-filled punch bowl centered on the kitchen table.

Day after day, he never seems to tire of scurrying about his glass castle. Some days I share a Cheerio, somedays a corner of Pop-Tart (strawberry). He seems to like them. We notice days growing longer. The snow melts. I’ve taken to piling my unread books – now read – on the hearth. Is there some subconscious Fahrenheit fireman prowling the back of my skull? The internet provides connection with everyone I need to and some I choose to.

Azazel’s a very quiet ant. Sometimes we talk. Not him of course – that would be crazy! But he’s a good listener. Each day he runs his haphazard marathon and I watch. Pretty soon he’s enjoying the attention. No. That’s ridiculous.
Still, an experiment seems in order.

One morning I set up to watch him from the doorway through my periscope. Yes, I have a periscope, what’s it to you? Nothing happens. He sleeps all morning. By mid-afternoon he hasn’t budged. Is he dead? He was fine yesterday. I cradle the periscope and go in. He perks up at my approach and starts his daily excursion. Wow. Was he waiting for me? To watch him? How? Ants don’t have very big brains. Sorry Azazel, it’s a fact. But maybe just big enough to have feelings? That’s nuts. Time to order some more port. Maybe up my nightly serving to two glasses. Or three.

Over the next few weeks Azazel starts slowing down. He’s bored. So bored. How can he stand it? Doesn’t want to talk about it. Soon he’s marching so very morosely:  an inch this way, a half-inch that way, circling a few times zig-zag style, slowing to a halt, sleeping. He’s definitely growing weary of my company. He’s clearly unhappy with me. I can hear it in his voice. The shelf that once held my unread books, now forlorn but for three hollow port bottles, taunts me. I don’t sleep. Poor Azazel. My beard itches. When did I grow a beard? And a ponytail? When did it turn gray? Yesterday’s blizzard doesn’t help.

But poor Azazel. 

I wake to a dead furnace, no hope of repair until who knows when. The fireplace will have to do. I pad into the kitchen to check on my friend. He’s gone! After a few dry blinks I find him — afloat in the moat, his faint shivers gently rippling the icy expanse. In a moment he’s on my finger, then onto one of the only finished puzzles littering the table: Broadway, half done. Someone must have stolen some of the pieces. Long moments later I breathe again as Azazel stirs from his coma and begins wobbling toward me. Well past dawn he recovers enough for me to place him back in his home. It’s clear now what needs to be done. Selfish to think otherwise.

“Okay, come on buddy.”

I carry the pitcher to the back porch and set it on a windswept patch. After a few tentative antennae taps Azazel steps onto the chipped surface and starts an expectant march toward the steps like those baby turtles paddling across the sand toward the sea. Reaching the edge, he hesitates. So lonely. I go inside.
When I return a moment later, he’s gone. Dead-gray clouds are congealing over the far fields. I hope he’s safe. I hope he finds his countless coworkers and family. He looked so alone there at the edge of the steps.

It’s too quiet in here now. Maybe twice a day I scratch around inside the discarded wine box. Never did get around to tossing it out. Always empty. Not a speck of life. It rains all week. Then the next. Dust coats the punch bowl and puzzles.

I’m working out every day now, marching morosely a foot this way, a half-foot that way, circling a few times zig-zag style, slowing to a halt, sleeping. Definitely weary of my company. I can hear it in my voice. The days wind on, the walnut trees greening up. I think I’ll go out – just for a walk. Maybe into town. Yes. That sounds good. I wonder if Izzie’s coffee shop is open. Sure could use some company. Should be okay. I’m sure it’s over by now. Of course it is. The internet is wrong. Azazel wouldn’t have left me if it wasn’t over. I know him. He would never do that. Maybe I’ll bump into him. We can talk.