I’ve always enjoyed a good apocalypse story, and a few years back, I started writing my own doomsday book (one of the many novels I haven’t yet finished writing). In this particular story, I explore what would happen in a pandemic that wiped out half the world’s population. In most books of this genre, the world is utterly decimated by a plague, and all is lost, pretty much. But what about in a world where just enough people die that societies become extremely vulnerable?
It’s obvious why I’ve been thinking about that story. Our current COVID-19 scourge won’t wipe out half the population; it won’t even wipe out 1% of it. But look how quickly our lives have been undermined by this pandemic.
Before I went too far down my apocalypse rabbit hole, I decided it would do me some good to get outside and remind myself that life goes on, albeit in our strange way. Yesterday was the last day of winter, an overcast, scattered-rain kind of day. I’m a teacher, so I’m home on an extended spring break before switching to teaching my classes online. I’d been obsessively following the news about the closures of restaurants, clubs, institutions, schools, etc., and the cancellation of public events, and suddenly I had the urge to go document some of it. A field trip alone via car seemed like a safe enough activity, so I gathered up my photography supplies and headed out.
I started with my own community of Kirkwood, Missouri. Even here in the Midwest, with our lower infection rates, we’ve gone into a lockdown to curtail the spread of this coronavirus. My nearby strip mall shopping center wasn’t bustling as it usually is. The parking lots near non-essential businesses (clothing, toys) were nearly empty. The hardware store and pet supply store was slightly more populated, and Target appeared to have half its usual business.
The restaurant corner of a strip mall was nearly empty. As hard as it is for some to believe, Longhorn Steakhouse is usually packed to capacity with an hour wait for a table. Our main street, Kirkwood Road, is usually overcrowded with vehicles, but not now. The Magic House, our local attraction, is closed, but the parking lot had some cars, probably of employees. A man on the Magic House’s loading dock stared at me quizzically. I waved to show that I was harmless. He didn’t wave back. A family on the nearby sidewalk asked if the Magic House was open, but I told them no. They continued their quiet walk.
I wanted to head to Forest Park, twenty minutes away in St. Louis City, but I suddenly needed a bathroom and I didn’t want to go all the way back to my house. I’m a bit lazy, and I might have abandoned my field trip, but it was unlikely I’d find a toilet in Forest Park. I went to Kirkwood Park instead to use that restroom. The nearby playground wasn’t quite empty. I saw several pairs of people, mostly a parent and a child, engaging in a little outdoor activity, but they were spread far and wide, socially isolating themselves. I’m glad to report that the park restroom was empty, immaculately clean, and freshly sanitized. I could tell by the scent of disinfectant and the still-wet cleaning streaks on the stall doors. Hours later, Kirkwood announced they were closing park restrooms, so I might have been the last person to drop my germs there.
I headed north on Lindbergh Boulevard, which is what Kirkwood Road becomes once you leave Kirkwood, and the usual heavy traffic was missing. Driving through the small suburb of Huntleigh felt like I was passing through a ghost town. I traveled east on Highway 40, where the traffic was also light. The one spot where congestion picked up was through Brentwood-Clayton, an area that’s always jumping. From the highway, I could see that Brentwood Promenade’s parking lot was quite filled. Apparently, some people were still out shopping.
The Hampton exit from Highway 40 has two long lanes that turn left into Forest Park. Sometimes those lanes get backed up onto the highway. On this day, I had one lane to myself and another car occupied the lane next to me. Similarly, the park was empty. The two traffic-headache roundabouts were completely clear. I drove past the wavy walls of the St. Louis Zoo, and the absence of visitors was eerie. Other than a few joggers, no one was at the park. Many times I have bemoaned Forest Park’s popularity. Compared to my childhood memories, now the park is always swamped with people and every road is filled with parked cars. But not this day.
You’ll be happy to hear that for the first time in my whole life, I got rock star parking on the street in front of the zoo’s main Living World entrance. There was no other car on the street. The paid parking lot had some cars in it, probably zoo employees who were working to take care of all the creatures inside.
Next, I drove up the hill to the St. Louis Art Museum where I had just as much good fortune in finding a parking spot. I saw a ground worker installing new plants, humming and even dancing a bit, but she disappeared by the time I exited my car. The street and sidewalk in front of the art museum were empty. Far down Art Hill, I saw some walkers near the pond, but otherwise, I was all alone in a silent park.
I took some art photos of the external statues. One of the statues above the art museum entrance seems to be holding a bottle of hand sanitizer, which seemed funny when I got to my next destination: the grocery store. Installed outside of the Dierberg’s on Manchester Road was a new sight: a hand cleaning station. Inside, the store was mostly stocked, but customers were sparse. The one thing they were all out of was toilet paper.
Comments