It’s late morning, and the paterfamilias has donned his formal attire. The toga cloaking the loose folds of his chiton is blue with a fluffy grey lining on the collar and sash. His bare feet are swathed in a pair of long woollen socks, pulled high over the rolls of his baggy grey sweatpants. From the neckline of his oversized t-shirt hangs a folded pair of aviator sunglasses. His hair has been combed out of his eyes with his fingers, and is fixed in place by a charge of static electricity generated by the dressing gown which he has worn for a stubborn forty-nine days.
He emerges from the bedroom cradling a ceramic brimming with coffee and tiptoes down the hallway to the living room, determined not to spill a drop of the fine ambrosia as he places the cup on the low table. Seating himself on his hip and shoulder, he dines in traditional Ancient Roman style. Scooping spoons of cereal into his mouth, the man munches thoughtfully as he finally draws his eyes up to meet the gaze of the exasperated speaker.
An unprecedented number of cases over the last twenty-four hours-” -causes the listener to flinch in their seat. They adjust the television subtly and…
“…strongly urge anyone in those circumstances to get tested…”
The moderately dishevelled hair, hunched posture and tired eyes of the conference leader inspire from the onlooker the empathy to bite back his scathing remarks and restrain himself from shattering the television screen with its own remote. A tantrum of verbal violence would normally bring a brief moment of revelry from the otherwise monotonous morning routine, but today he only opens his mouth to sip his coffee, and as he exhales, smirks with the satisfaction of discovering a surviving ember of empathy seven weeks into his isolation.
Seven weeks in, and you’re not utterly mental. Yet.
“With hope of flattening the curve…”
Matthew turns the television off. He stands and flicks the robes of his dressing gown aside with an attitude which transforms the stained fabric into the sheen silk of a tuxedo jacket. With apathy he places his refilled coffee on a precarious corner of the electric piano. He rummages through the pile of sheet music on the floor and props up a random file on the music stand. Settling his fingers into the keys, he begins with a soothing, melodious baseline. Left hand bound below Middle C, he chases the sheet music inward, closing his eyes to internalise the sound which seems a little off?
Matt’s hyper-focus becomes intoxicated as the caffeine hits him. His fingernails are buzzing. His itchy brain interprets the notes entangled. The tempo fluctuated beyond moderato, his notes fall into swing and his voice oscillates a cadent free-verse abomination of slam poetry.
No. This is JAZZZZZ!
His fevered singing tumbles into a fit of manic laughter. Behind his eyelashes flash blue tartan shorts, black shoe polish, the graffitied underside of a school desk, the red bite of the cane.
Sit up STRAIGHT Matthew!
She scolds his unorthodox performance, his hair, his posture.
“I have a captivating stage presence, bitch!” Matt triumphantly quotes the review
from last year’s tour and improvises with one hand as he sips his coffee with the other. He’s laughing louder now, to drown out her protest. The base of the cup has left a crescent moon stain on the lacquered timber. Mrs Pindago rolls in her grave.
The pot plants need watering. Matt rinses his empty coffee mug in the sink and refills it with clean water. The succulents in the kitchen splutter in shock then sip reluctantly, and the spider plant on the balcony gurgles and spits. The hanging plant edges away from him toward the balcony edge as he leans on a kitchen stool with a bowl of water held over his head. The peace lily on the dining table nods in thanks, and the umbrella leaves of the money plant in the study obnoxiously dribbles onto every document on the desk within its reach.
Maybe I could organise the study today. Though, today started four hours ago, there is quite a schedule to get through.
Matt pends the remaining hours of the morning calculating the most efficient cost-to-quality Mexican restaurant in the district on Uber Eats. This research yields gratifying results. In his mask and his dressing gown he dances like a Greek chorus performer down the elevator and into the foyer to collect his meal. This is the lunch ceremony. A swinging plastic bag and the hungry tearing of paper and the determination to consume with no more utensils than a single fork to save washing up. Matt is so satisfied with his full belly that he finds the motivation to wipe the crumbs from the bench with a clean dishcloth.
A rather productive day indeed.
He is very pleased with this simple act of cleanliness.
Observing the clock indicate 2:00 PM, Matt retrieves for himself a cold beer and settles into a private screening of Point Break. This endeavour is quickly interrupted by a phone call from a distracted agent requesting a three-way video call with a distressed events manager who requests a postponement for a tour which had been, in the minds of every staff member involved, postponed by six months at the very least. Luckily for Matthew, the digital meeting (which should have been an email) was resolved during the film’s intermission, and he resumes his Netflix screening with the peace of mind that the ordeal had been clarified before any bored marketing assistant could publish advertising for an illegal live music gathering. A collective sigh of relief was breathed by all parties involved.
Late into the afternoon, Matthew has had a few beers, and is pacing a track into the carpet of the living room. He’s listening to a podcast about entrepreneurship in the music industry and he isn’t looking at the left leg of the dining table. The small toe of his left foot strikes the timber beam, crumples, sheds a thin peel of skin and bleeds onto the floor. Matt grasps at the air, choking on agony. He rips open the balcony door and plummets into the cold grey gale which hammers the apartment building. The acupuncture needles of winter mist soothe his knotted facial muscles and the frosty concrete balcony numbs the excruciating pain of his stubbed toe. With another deep breath Matt concludes that he has overreacted. He will not throw himself from the balcony.
A simple amputation shall suffice.
It’s dark inside, but Matt has enough light to count the rows of tallies scratched into the paint on the back of the door of the spare bedroom. He came here looking for the Nikon camera which hobbied his free time back in the 80’s. He hasn’t found it yet, having been too preoccupied with updating the calendar door.
That has been the only lockdown project to last more than a few hours.
Matt has tried watercolour painting, croquet and photoshop. He has briefly attempted to cultivate a small herb garden on the balcony. The saplings died in the frost.
The buzzing of the refrigerator reverberates loudest around 3:00am. Matthew lies like a sad starfish beneath his duvet cover, pondering about cooking a frozen pizza.
Maybe just a snack will do?
It matters little to him that he hasn’t left the building to buy groceries in nearly four weeks, nor that his financial income is dwindling.
No, don’t open the fridge again. The voice of reason rasps with a sore throat.
You’re not hungry. You’re bored. You know exactly what’s in there.
In the fridge is an expired jar of black olives, two thirds of a wheel of brie,
a bottle of tomato sauce,
two six packs of beer
and half a cake, defaced by a fork.
Don’t open the pantry again. It’s well past midnight. You’re not hungry. You’re bored. You know exactly what’s in there!
In the pantry is four packets of noodles,
a jar of cashew nuts,
an expired box of shortbread biscuits, two thirds of a bottle of rice wine,
three half-full family sized Nutella jars
and lentils.
In the depths of the night Matthew wanders the apartment like a wraith. He swims through the dank air down the corridor, the floor rippling beneath each step. Surrendering to the current, the river Styx drags him down, his thoughts barely bubbling to the surface of the viscous water. Barely. A glimmer of optimism breaks through; an F# quaver. The note rings in his head, penetrating the labyrinth of thoughts caging him and pulling him from his own head like a lifeline. Matthew follows it to the piano, and with his fingers anchored to the keys, he lets it guide him to dawn; serenading the rising sun.