Adrianne Lenker’s Radical Honesty

Moving can be disorienting—all that sorting and boxing and tossing out forces a kind of self-reckoning—and for Lenker the experience was only intensified by the ongoing anxiety of the coronavirus pandemic , which made imagining any sort of future feel optimistic , if not naïve .
The exhaustion and sorrow of the spring had left everyone feeling precarious .
The sun refracted against the surface of the creek until the water turned black .
Our conversation drifted toward the Zen idea of impermanence .
“ Is it too early for this ?
” Lenker joked .
“ Nice to meet @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Lenker had spent the past few weeks recording with Big Thief at a home studio in the Catskill Mountains , run by the musicians Sam Owens and Hannah Cohen .
The rest of the band—the guitarist Buck Meek , the bassist Max Oleartchik , and the drummer James Krivchenia—had since left , but Lenker stuck around to renovate the trailer .
She had just ordered a twin mattress , a portable woodstove , and new linens .
This month , Lenker will release two solo albums : “ Songs , ” a collection @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and “ Instrumentals , ” which is composed of a pair of slowly unfolding guitar pieces .
She made the records simultaneously , at a remote cabin in New England , in the early , panicked days of both the pandemic and a breakup .
Lenker is a quick and instinctive writer , and even under normal circumstances her songs are raw and unfussy—it can feel as if they were dug up whole , like a carrot from the garden .
She sometimes speaks about writing as a kind of conjuring .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ to that moment where she ’ s holding the guitar , ” Oleartchik told me .
“ I never really think of her , like , fucking around and playing riffs or something .
It ’ s always this instrument of witchcraft .
It ’ s always holy .
She writes music from this place that ’ s very intuitive and fearless , and she has confidence that there ’ s some kind of spirit or force that she can listen to.
” Before Lenker vacated her apartment in New York , she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her ex-girlfriend had drawn on the bedroom wall .
Lenker took some solace from the idea that the image wouldn ’ t be erased , exactly—it remained , even if she couldn ’ t see it anymore .
Lenker has been in romantic relationships with men and with women , and doesn ’ t feel any particular obligation to outline her sexuality in precise terms , though she is comfortable being called queer .
“ The fact that there ’ s still people against that kind of stuff makes the words necessary , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hopefully we move into a place where it ’ s , like , You ’ re what ?
Why are you saying what you are ?
” The wounds from the breakup were still pretty tender .
“ There ’ s a fullness that happens when someone is focussed on you , ” Lenker said .
“ For me , if I ’ m being fully looked at and paid attention to and seen , I ’ m filled up by that.
” She continued , “ Now there isn ’ t anyone @ @ @ @ @ @ @ messages coming through .
I feel so empty .
There ’ s a song on the new record , ‘ Zombie Girl , ’ and the refrain is ‘ Emptiness / Tell me about your nature.
’ That ’ s a real question .
I want to understand—what is this feeling of emptiness ?
Is that me ?
Am I just hollow and empty ?
Or is emptiness actually something beautiful ?
” As we talked , Lenker teared up .
I hadn ’ t yet had to idly watch someone cry from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her cheeks , I crammed my hands in my pockets and mumbled something about how the worst and saddest thing about heartbreak is that it always ends .
Big Thief formed in Brooklyn in 2015 , and quickly became one of the most acclaimed new bands of recent years , in part because of Lenker ’ s emotional transparency , and in part because of how her voice , which is delicate and craggy , complements the group ’ s bold use of dissonance and volume .
In 2019 , Big Thief was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Alternative Music Album , but its work is more commonly described as folk rock , a characterization that , although accurate—the band is as indebted to visionary singer-songwriters such as Judee Sill and Vashti Bunyan as it is to Sonic Youth and Neil Young—feels too tame .
Big Thief ’ s best songs begin quietly , and expand until it seems as though a major artery were about to burst .
The results can be strange and thrilling .
“ Adrianne has that disorienting quality all real-deal types have , where she comes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ subverts the form , ” Jeff Tweedy , the front man for Wilco , told me .
“ Sometimes you would swear it ’ s a mistake or misunderstanding of her own song— ‘ Why ’ d she start singing there ?
’ —but it ’ s not , it ’ s a precise angle that only she seems to possess.
” The band grew out of a partnership between Lenker and Meek .
They met at a show in Boston , where they had both been undergraduates , and then ran into @ @ @ @ @ @ @ day Lenker moved to Brooklyn .
“ I was moving into a warehouse in Bushwick with ten other artists , ” Lenker said .
“ I ’ m pretty sure it was illegal—there were beams separating the rooms , no windows , a cement floor.
” She and Meek soon began performing as a duo .
“ When we first started playing , we would just sit together , ” Meek told me .
“ She had these really wild fingerpicking patterns that she had developed , and she would tune the guitar @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I had this very syncopated , rhythmic structure—hers was much more liquid .
And , somehow , these different rhythmic landscapes created something.
” Lenker got a job as a back waiter at a restaurant on the Upper West Side .
“ Five days a week , at one in the morning , I was biking all the way to Bushwick from Seventy-second and Columbus , ” she recalled .
“ I was saving up for guitar amps , saving up for a guitar , saving up for a van.
” Meek and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wrapped them in paper bags , and wrote the track listings by hand .
“ Buck and I played coffee shops and back-yard barbecues and dive bars and birthday parties and shows for nobody for a couple of years , ” Lenker said .
In time , they fell in love , and , when she was twenty-four and Meek was twenty-eight , they got married .
There is footage of them busking in Washington Square Park in 2014 , playing an early version of “ Paul , ” which eventually appeared on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Masterpiece.
” The audience—a middle-aged man in billowing khakis and sunglasses , a tall guy talking on his cell phone—is gently uninterested in a New York City sort of way .
Lenker and Meek share a microphone .
“ Paul ” is a song about having a hard time loving another person .
“ I realized there was no one who could kiss away my shit , ” Lenker sings , her voice resigned .
Yet the desire to be fixed—to find relief through love—remains .
“ I ’ ve been burning @ @ @ @ @ @ @ moment I left , ” she admits .
The chorus is a mesmeric rush : Lenker was born in Indianapolis in 1991 , and brought up mostly in and around Minnesota .
She has a younger sister , Zoë , and a younger brother , Noah .
When Lenker was five , she was hit on the head by a railroad spike that fell out of a tree house in her family ’ s front yard .
“ Mythological Beauty , ” a song from Big Thief ’ s second record , “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ terrified mother : Lenker ’ s parents married young , and joined a fringe religious sect before Lenker was born .
She remembers the group as having “ born-again-Christian , kind of cult vibes—a closed community .
We lived in an apartment complex where the surrounding people were part of the same thing .
There were a lot of rules .
Honestly , I remember there being a lot of shame .
My sister ’ s name was evil , because it wasn ’ t in the Bible .
Certain shapes were evil @ @ @ @ @ @ @ When we prayed , the Bible couldn ’ t touch the floor , and we prayed under blankets.
” Her mother recalled that sometimes the group provided a chaperon if the family travelled out of state .
( Lenker ’ s father disputes some of these details . )
Her parents left the sect when she was four , and for a short while they lived out of a van .
“ We were still quite religious until I was about eight or nine , ” Lenker said .
“ Then I watched @ @ @ @ @ @ @ discard all religion.
” She found the shift bewildering .
“ I just remember feeling , like , I ’ m not going to go along for this ride.
” ( Her father has since reconnected with his faith , and describes his time away from it as hedonistic . )
Lenker has spent much of her adulthood trying to unpack the experience , and is now quick to recognize troubling rhythms from her youth when they reëmerge in her adult relationships .
“ I sometimes equate intimacy with turbulence , which is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The journey that I ’ m currently on is just : how do I transmute some of these patterns of violence ?
” Her ideas of home are constantly changing .
“ I don ’ t really think of Minnesota when I think of home , ” she said .
“ I think of it as part of who I am .
The thing that I come back to is that it ’ s my loved ones , and Earth .
I feel really at home here , in this spot in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ around .
“ And it doesn ’ t feel like it ’ s anyone ’ s. ” Eventually , we climbed back down the mountain .
Owens and Cohen had built a stone dam in the stream that snakes across their property , creating a little basin for swimming .
The stream runs into the Esopus Creek , a sixty-five-mile tributary of the Hudson River which winds through the eastern Catskills and fills the Ashokan Reservoir .
We walked barefoot over mossy bluestone .
The water was clear and bracing .
Lenker disrobed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ yelp .
While Lenker and the rest of Big Thief were working , they developed a habit of leaping into the water between takes .
There ’ s something curative about a frigid plunge , the way it forces the old air from your lungs .
“ You come out screaming , ” Oleartchik said .
In 1702 , Sir John Floyer published a treatise on the benefits of cold bathing , a practice that was then still mostly unknown to the English .
“ Cold baths act much on the Spirits , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ render them Strong and Vigorous , ” he wrote .
It ’ s comforting to think that , even in our bleakest moments , there might still be a way to protect our Spirits from dissipating entirely .
Lenker began playing guitar when she was six , and discovered an affinity for the instrument .
Her father started giving her lessons .
“ He ’ d be , like , Whoa—how do you already know that ?
” she said .
“ I was just eating it up.
” When Lenker was thirteen @ @ @ @ @ @ @ out of school and moved in with her father in Minneapolis .
He was intent on managing—and , to a degree , monetizing—her nascent music career .
“ I think he wanted me to be famous , wanted me to be the best , wanted me to win that shit , ” she said .
Lenker did not share his exact ambitions .
She made some recordings but felt disconnected from them .
“ The very first music I listened to , and then continued to listen to throughout that whole time , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ guitar guys my dad loved , ” she said .
When she was fifteen , a boyfriend introduced her to Elliott Smith , whose tense and immediate folk songs provided a counterpoint to the more polished music her father had encouraged .
“ I was , like , Oh , my God , this is so good , ” she recalled .
“ This is all I want to do .
I don ’ t want to create these elaborate , pop-sounding productions .
”

In late August, the singer, songwriter, and guitarist Adrianne Lenker stood beside a creek in upstate New York, watching the water move. The day before, Lenker, who is twenty-nine, had packed up the Brooklyn apartment she’d been sharing with two roommates. She was preparing to haul a vintage camping trailer across the country to Topanga Canyon, on the west side of Los Angeles, where her band, Big Thief, was planning to meet up. For the next couple of months, at least, the trailer would be home.
Moving can be disorienting—all that sorting and boxing and tossing out forces a kind of self-reckoning—and for Lenker the experience was only intensified by the ongoing anxiety of the coronavirus pandemic, which made imagining any sort of future feel optimistic, if not naïve. The exhaustion and sorrow of the spring had left everyone feeling precarious. The sun refracted against the surface of the creek until the water turned black. Our conversation drifted toward the Zen idea of impermanence. “Is it too early for this?” Lenker joked. “Nice to meet you—let’s talk about death.”
Lenker had spent the past few weeks recording with Big Thief at a home studio in the Catskill Mountains, run by the musicians Sam Owens and Hannah Cohen. The rest of the band—the guitarist Buck Meek, the bassist Max Oleartchik, and the drummer James Krivchenia—had since left, but Lenker stuck around to renovate the trailer. She had just ordered a twin mattress, a portable woodstove, and new linens.
This month, Lenker will release two solo albums: “Songs,” a collection of tender, harmonically complex folk tunes, and “Instrumentals,” which is composed of a pair of slowly unfolding guitar pieces. She made the records simultaneously, at a remote cabin in New England, in the early, panicked days of both the pandemic and a breakup. Lenker is a quick and instinctive writer, and even under normal circumstances her songs are raw and unfussy—it can feel as if they were dug up whole, like a carrot from the garden. She sometimes speaks about writing as a kind of conjuring. “She gives a lot of significance to that moment where she’s holding the guitar,” Oleartchik told me. “I never really think of her, like, fucking around and playing riffs or something. It’s always this instrument of witchcraft. It’s always holy. She writes music from this place that’s very intuitive and fearless, and she has confidence that there’s some kind of spirit or force that she can listen to.”
Before Lenker vacated her apartment in New York, she had to paint over an illustration that her ex-girlfriend had drawn on the bedroom wall. Lenker took some solace from the idea that the image wouldn’t be erased, exactly—it remained, even if she couldn’t see it anymore. Lenker has been in romantic relationships with men and with women, and doesn’t feel any particular obligation to outline her sexuality in precise terms, though she is comfortable being called queer. “The fact that there’s still people against that kind of stuff makes the words necessary,” she told me. “But hopefully we move into a place where it’s, like, You’re what? Why are you saying what you are?”
The wounds from the breakup were still pretty tender. “There’s a fullness that happens when someone is focussed on you,” Lenker said. “For me, if I’m being fully looked at and paid attention to and seen, I’m filled up by that.” She continued, “Now there isn’t anyone to text; there are no love messages coming through. I feel so empty. There’s a song on the new record, ‘Zombie Girl,’ and the refrain is ‘Emptiness / Tell me about your nature.’ That’s a real question. I want to understand—what is this feeling of emptiness? Is that me? Am I just hollow and empty? Or is emptiness actually something beautiful?”
As we talked, Lenker teared up. I hadn’t yet had to idly watch someone cry from six feet away. As she wiped her cheeks, I crammed my hands in my pockets and mumbled something about how the worst and saddest thing about heartbreak is that it always ends.
Big Thief formed in Brooklyn in 2015, and quickly became one of the most acclaimed new bands of recent years, in part because of Lenker’s emotional transparency, and in part because of how her voice, which is delicate and craggy, complements the group’s bold use of dissonance and volume. In 2019, Big Thief was nominated for a Grammy Award for Best Alternative Music Album, but its work is more commonly described as folk rock, a characterization that, although accurate—the band is as indebted to visionary singer-songwriters such as Judee Sill and Vashti Bunyan as it is to Sonic Youth and Neil Young—feels too tame. Big Thief’s best songs begin quietly, and expand until it seems as though a major artery were about to burst. The results can be strange and thrilling. “Adrianne has that disorienting quality all real-deal types have, where she comes at her songs so sideways that it subverts the form,” Jeff Tweedy, the front man for Wilco, told me. “Sometimes you would swear it’s a mistake or misunderstanding of her own song—‘Why’d she start singing there?’—but it’s not, it’s a precise angle that only she seems to possess.”
The band grew out of a partnership between Lenker and Meek. They met at a show in Boston, where they had both been undergraduates, and then ran into each other at a bodega on the day Lenker moved to Brooklyn. “I was moving into a warehouse in Bushwick with ten other artists,” Lenker said. “I’m pretty sure it was illegal—there were beams separating the rooms, no windows, a cement floor.” She and Meek soon began performing as a duo.
“When we first started playing, we would just sit together,” Meek told me. “She had these really wild fingerpicking patterns that she had developed, and she would tune the guitar to so many different open tunings. I had this very syncopated, rhythmic structure—hers was much more liquid. And, somehow, these different rhythmic landscapes created something.”
Lenker got a job as a back waiter at a restaurant on the Upper West Side. “Five days a week, at one in the morning, I was biking all the way to Bushwick from Seventy-second and Columbus,” she recalled. “I was saving up for guitar amps, saving up for a guitar, saving up for a van.”
Meek and Lenker burned CDs of their music, wrapped them in paper bags, and wrote the track listings by hand. “Buck and I played coffee shops and back-yard barbecues and dive bars and birthday parties and shows for nobody for a couple of years,” Lenker said. In time, they fell in love, and, when she was twenty-four and Meek was twenty-eight, they got married.
There is footage of them busking in Washington Square Park in 2014, playing an early version of “Paul,” which eventually appeared on Big Thief’s début album, “Masterpiece.” The audience—a middle-aged man in billowing khakis and sunglasses, a tall guy talking on his cell phone—is gently uninterested in a New York City sort of way. Lenker and Meek share a microphone. “Paul” is a song about having a hard time loving another person. “I realized there was no one who could kiss away my shit,” Lenker sings, her voice resigned. Yet the desire to be fixed—to find relief through love—remains. “I’ve been burning for you, baby, since the moment I left,” she admits. The chorus is a mesmeric rush:
I’ll be your morning bright, good night, shadow machine
I’ll be your record player, baby, if you know what I mean
I’ll be a real tough cookie with the whiskey breath
I’ll be a killer and a thriller and the cause of our death
In the Catskills, between recording sessions, Lenker and her bandmates sometimes hiked into the woods to work on a tepeelike structure they had taken to calling a fort. There was no trail, and getting to it required climbing up the face of a small mountain, mostly by grabbing the trunks of saplings—a strategy any reasonable outdoorsperson would describe as inadvisable—and scrambling to find holds in large rocks. One afternoon, Lenker and I made our way there to sit on a boulder and talk. She darted uphill gracefully.
Lenker was born in Indianapolis in 1991, and brought up mostly in and around Minnesota. She has a younger sister, Zoë, and a younger brother, Noah. When Lenker was five, she was hit on the head by a railroad spike that fell out of a tree house in her family’s front yard. “Mythological Beauty,” a song from Big Thief’s second record, “Capacity,” is addressed to her terrified mother:
Blood gushing from my head
You held me in the back seat with a dishrag, soaking up blood with your eyes
I was just five and you were twenty-seven
Praying, “Don’t let my baby die”
Lenker’s parents married young, and joined a fringe religious sect before Lenker was born. She remembers the group as having “born-again-Christian, kind of cult vibes—a closed community. We lived in an apartment complex where the surrounding people were part of the same thing. There were a lot of rules. Honestly, I remember there being a lot of shame. My sister’s name was evil, because it wasn’t in the Bible. Certain shapes were evil, too, like the star. When we prayed, the Bible couldn’t touch the floor, and we prayed under blankets.” Her mother recalled that sometimes the group provided a chaperon if the family travelled out of state. (Lenker’s father disputes some of these details.)
Her parents left the sect when she was four, and for a short while they lived out of a van. “We were still quite religious until I was about eight or nine,” Lenker said. “Then I watched my parents take a dramatic turn and discard all religion.” She found the shift bewildering. “I just remember feeling, like, I’m not going to go along for this ride.” (Her father has since reconnected with his faith, and describes his time away from it as hedonistic.)
Lenker has spent much of her adulthood trying to unpack the experience, and is now quick to recognize troubling rhythms from her youth when they reëmerge in her adult relationships. “I sometimes equate intimacy with turbulence, which is familiar,” she said. “The journey that I’m currently on is just: how do I transmute some of these patterns of violence?”


newyorker--2020-10-12--Glad for Plaid, as Catholic Schools Pick Up the Slack

Dana Conlon , who manages the Bensonhurst location , started working at Flynn O ’ Hara ten years ago .
Her son and daughter attended Catholic schools on Staten Island—Monsignor Farrell and St. Joseph by the Sea—and she went to St. Brendan and St. Mark .
“ We still sell that uniform , ” she said , on a recent Monday .
“ Plaid eighty-seven was mine.
” Every plaid has a number .
At Flynn O ’ Hara , the mostly navy-and-green fitting-room curtains are eighty-three , the weave worn by students at St. Bernadette , in Dyker Heights @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , is navy , yellow , and gray .
“ Which happens to be one of the oldest plaids , ” Wayne DeAngelo , a district manager of the chain , said , stepping out of a storeroom .
“ I ’ m not implying that you ’ re old , but that plaid has been around for probably forty years , ” he said .
“ It ’ s very classic.
” The previous day , the union representing the city ’ s principals announced that it had lost confidence in de @ @ @ @ @ @ @ schools .
Conlon , expecting a crowd , had called extra salespeople in to help .
A customer named Thomas Aellis came in at around 4 p.m. to buy gym shirts for his three daughters , who are all at St. Bernadette .
The year had taken a toll , and he mentioned that he was thinking of leaving New York .
“ I own a limousine company on Eighty-sixth Street , ” he said .
Giulia Troia , a longtime summer worker who just graduated from Fontbonne Hall Academy , looked up @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for my prom.
” “ This year ?
” he asked .
“ That was the only school that did something for the kids.
” Aellis ’ s wife is a public-school teacher .
“ So she ’ s in the middle of the bleep storm , ” he said .
“ Two of our best friends pulled their kids from public , ” he added , and enrolled them at St. Bernadette .
“ Kids are in full days , one-hundred-per-cent capacity , every day , ” he said of the school @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
They were tired .
They missed their friends.
” “ I hope it ’ s not just a temporary switch , ” Louise Romano , an assistant manager , said .
“ Where families are just putting their kids in there for now , then in a year they ’ re going to put them back in public schools , because a lot of the Catholic schools are in danger of closing.
” She listed a couple of casualties : St. Anselm ( which merged with Holy Angels and became Bay Ridge @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Guadalupe .
Aellis paid thirty-five dollars and fifty cents for three yellow gym shirts with the St. Bernadette crest .
On his way out , he passed Michele Cartelli and Andrea Gatti-Bryant , sisters who swirled in with a dozen questions .
They needed Our Lady of Grace uniforms for two nine-year-old boys , who were starting school the next morning .
“ What ’ s the one they wear every day ?
” Cartelli asked .
No , a clerk explained , Our Lady of Grace requires “ graphite twill ” —gray @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Renzo , a skinny kid she calls Bird Bones , into a changing room with a size eight slim , and he emerged grimacing .
The pants were baggy and flared at the ankles .
“ You can ’ t go smaller , because I ’ m going to wash them , ” his mother said .
Renzo slunk back into the fitting room .
“ Drip ?
” he asked , using a hip-hop fashion term as he examined the uniform .
“ Not at all.
” He went on , “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s my body.
” He yanked the eighty-three-plaid curtain closed .
“ I ’ m sorry , ” Gatti-Bryant told him .
“ That ’ s what it is for Catholic school.
” Renzo didn ’ t have to endure the baggy pants for long .
A week later , Governor Andrew Cuomo closed Our Lady of Grace and all other schools in nine neighborhoods across Queens and Brooklyn where rates of the virus had spiked .
The sisters hoped that city officials would come up with a better plan .
Cartelli @ @ @ @ @ @ @ balancing her job and remote learning for her son , Matthew , had been chaotic .
Gatti-Bryant had initially signed Renzo up for what the public schools are calling blended learning , “ but they were only going to be in person about five days a month , ” she said .
“ People need to work .
What are you going to do with your kids ?
Leave them home alone ?
” “ Not every parent is cut out to be a teacher , ” Cartelli said .
Gatti-Bryant looked at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ I could never.
” ♦

Illustration by João Fazenda
At the Bensonhurst outpost of Flynn O’Hara, a school-uniform store, the busiest time of the year is usually the Tuesday after Labor Day. By late September, families have stocked up on the insignia blazers and tartan jumpers that are commensurate with a Catholic education. But this fall, with Mayor Bill de Blasio twice delaying reopening the city’s public schools, Flynn O’Hara had lines around the block. Harried-looking mothers gave themselves away by asking the telltale newbie question: How many pairs of pants should I buy?
Dana Conlon, who manages the Bensonhurst location, started working at Flynn O’Hara ten years ago. Her son and daughter attended Catholic schools on Staten Island—Monsignor Farrell and St. Joseph by the Sea—and she went to St. Brendan and St. Mark. “We still sell that uniform,” she said, on a recent Monday. “Plaid eighty-seven was mine.”
Every plaid has a number. At Flynn O’Hara, the mostly navy-and-green fitting-room curtains are eighty-three, the weave worn by students at St. Bernadette, in Dyker Heights. Eighty-seven, the plaid Conlon wore, is navy, yellow, and gray. “Which happens to be one of the oldest plaids,” Wayne DeAngelo, a district manager of the chain, said, stepping out of a storeroom.
“Thank you, Wayne,” Conlon said.
“I’m not implying that you’re old, but that plaid has been around for probably forty years,” he said. “It’s very classic.”
The previous day, the union representing the city’s principals announced that it had lost confidence in de Blasio’s plan to reopen the schools. Conlon, expecting a crowd, had called extra salespeople in to help. A customer named Thomas Aellis came in at around 4 p.m. to buy gym shirts for his three daughters, who are all at St. Bernadette. The year had taken a toll, and he mentioned that he was thinking of leaving New York. “I own a limousine company on Eighty-sixth Street,” he said.
Giulia Troia, a longtime summer worker who just graduated from Fontbonne Hall Academy, looked up: “Romantique? We had Romantique for my prom.”
“This year?” he asked. “That was the only school that did something for the kids.”
Aellis’s wife is a public-school teacher. “So she’s in the middle of the bleep storm,” he said. “Two of our best friends pulled their kids from public,” he added, and enrolled them at St. Bernadette. “Kids are in full days, one-hundred-per-cent capacity, every day,” he said of the school. “My kids wanted to go. They were tired. They missed their friends.”
“I hope it’s not just a temporary switch,” Louise Romano, an assistant manager, said. “Where families are just putting their kids in there for now, then in a year they’re going to put them back in public schools, because a lot of the Catholic schools are in danger of closing.” She listed a couple of casualties: St. Anselm (which merged with Holy Angels and became Bay Ridge Catholic Academy), Our Lady of Guadalupe.
Aellis paid thirty-five dollars and fifty cents for three yellow gym shirts with the St. Bernadette crest. On his way out, he passed Michele Cartelli and Andrea Gatti-Bryant, sisters who swirled in with a dozen questions. They needed Our Lady of Grace uniforms for two nine-year-old boys, who were starting school the next morning.
“What’s the one they wear every day?” Cartelli asked.
“I thought I saw kids wearing beige pants,” Gatti-Bryant said.
No, a clerk explained, Our Lady of Grace requires “graphite twill”—gray pants. Gatti-Bryant sent her son, Renzo, a skinny kid she calls Bird Bones, into a changing room with a size eight slim, and he emerged grimacing. The pants were baggy and flared at the ankles. “You can’t go smaller, because I’m going to wash them,” his mother said. Renzo slunk back into the fitting room. “Drip?” he asked, using a hip-hop fashion term as he examined the uniform. “Not at all.” He went on, “It’s my choice. It’s my body.” He yanked the eighty-three-plaid curtain closed.
“I’m sorry,” Gatti-Bryant told him. “That’s what it is for Catholic school.”
Renzo didn’t have to endure the baggy pants for long. A week later, Governor Andrew Cuomo closed Our Lady of Grace and all other schools in nine neighborhoods across Queens and Brooklyn where rates of the virus had spiked. The sisters hoped that city officials would come up with a better plan. Cartelli, a physical therapist, said that balancing her job and remote learning for her son, Matthew, had been chaotic. Gatti-Bryant had initially signed Renzo up for what the public schools are calling blended learning, “but they were only going to be in person about five days a month,” she said. “People need to work. What are you going to do with your kids? Leave them home alone?”
“Not every parent is cut out to be a teacher,” Cartelli said.
Gatti-Bryant looked at Renzo, then shook her head. “I could never.” ♦


newyorker--2020-10-12--Chloë Sevigny Is a Cool Mom

Chloë Sevigny Is a Cool Mom

“ I used to not really respond to babies , ” Chloë Sevigny , the actress and downtown style icon , said one recent afternoon .
“ I ’ d never see a baby and go , ‘ Oh , I want a kid.
’ But I ’ d see teen-agers and be , like , ‘ Damn , I want a teen-ager !
’ ” She laughed , long and loud .
Sevigny , who is forty-five , and who for more than half her life has embodied the platonic ideal of what the coolest girl in any room @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wearing square-toed cerulean-blue ballerina flats ( “ Comme des Garçons from the nineties ” ) , paired with short , lacy white socks , and a black slip dress repurposed as a skirt .
( “ Maison Margiela , also from the nineties .
I was watching that documentary series about Michael Jordan—so good !
—and this fabric reminded me of basketball shorts.
” ) She was sitting at the East Village Kosher mainstay B & H Dairy , dining al fresco—although the roar of traffic and sirens on Second Avenue provided an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Escape from New York.
” “ I ’ ve been eating at B & H since ‘ Kids , ’ ” she said , referring to Larry Clark ’ s 1995 skater-youth-gone-wild film , in which she had her breakout role .
On her lap she was holding her five-month-old son , Vanja , a robust , serene-looking child with alert eyes .
“ New customer !
Let me see !
” Ola Abdelwahed , who owns B & H with her husband , Fawzy , called out , approaching the table @ @ @ @ @ @ @ blinked calmly .
“ Blond hair and blue eyes , really Europe style !
” she said to his mother .
“ He gets everything from you !
” Sevigny demurred.
“ For now !
They say it can change .
His dad has very dark coloring , ” she said , referring to her boyfriend , Sinisa Mackovic , a gallery director .
Ola handed the actress a B & H onesie , printed with the words “ Challah !
Por Favor.
” The restaurant has been serving Eastern-European Jewish comfort food @ @ @ @ @ @ @ than eighty years , but half of its employees are Mexican .
Ola is from Poland , and her husband is Egyptian .
“ I used to own the falafel place next door , ” Fawzy said .
“ That ’ s when I met Chloë .
It was more a nighttime spot.
” He closed it in 2009 , a few years after buying B & H. “ Chloë is family , ” he went on .
“ She know me when I was nothing.
” B & H has had its @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a gas-main explosion in a nearby building led to a months-long closure , and this year the pandemic forced the restaurant to temporarily shut its doors .
( A GoFundMe was set up in support of its workers . )
After it reopened for limited business , in May , a bottle thrown by a protester shattered the front window .
“ It almost hit our cook Rafaelo on the head , ” Ola said .
“ It ’ s , how they say , what do we have to do with this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ suffering already.
” Sevigny frowned .
“ Yeah , and you ’ re not , like , the Verizon store , ” she said .
“ I ’ m not into any sort of violence .
A safer city is better for all of us.
” She began to feed Vanja a bottle of milk .
“ But I love being in the streets , and it was a little hard not being able to go to the protests .
He ’ s just so little still.
” She cooed at the baby @ @ @ @ @ @ @ you ’ ll be in the streets later !
Won ’ t you ?
” She skillfully balanced him in one arm and took a bite of her veggie omelette .
“ There ’ s a grittiness here that I like .
Tompkins Square Park keeps it really real still , ” she said .
She lives farther west now .
“ I wouldn ’ t come back to live in the East Village .
All the bars drove me crazy , ” she said .
“ When we were shooting ‘ Kids @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a place to stay , so I slept over at the costume designer ’ s house , right above , over there.
” She pointed at Fawzy ’ s old falafel place ( now a taquería ) .
“ It was one of those bathtubs in the kitchen , toilet down the hall .
.
.
” Her voice trailed off .
“ There were always junkie works in the bathroom .
I ’ d put up notes : ‘ Please don ’ t leave your stuff here.
’ ” Sevigny is starring @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” Luca Guadagnino ’ s HBO miniseries , in which she plays a colonel on an American Army base in Italy .
There is talk of the show ’ s being extended , but she ’ s not sure she would continue .
“ I don ’ t want to go back to Italy for four months , with Vanja , without Sinisa .
It ’ s so disruptive , ” she said .
“ And I ’ ve been doing this since I was nineteen .
I don ’ t want @ @ @ @ @ @ @ career , and I ’ m sure it ’ ll continue , but I have to really rethink my choices now.
” The farthest she ’ s gone lately is Connecticut , where she ’ s been spending weeks at her mother ’ s house .
Would she ever consider leaving New York ?
“ No , ” she said , then laughed .
“ Not even a second-house thing .
I ’ d rather spend my money on a nice holiday.
” She hoisted the baby to a standing position on her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ move to the suburbs , Vanja ?
” she asked .
“ That ’ s O.K .
if you want to .
You can be square !
” ♦

Chloë Sevigny Illustration by João Fazenda
“I used to not really respond to babies,” Chloë Sevigny, the actress and downtown style icon, said one recent afternoon. “I’d never see a baby and go, ‘Oh, I want a kid.’ But I’d see teen-agers and be, like, ‘Damn, I want a teen-ager!’ ” She laughed, long and loud. Sevigny, who is forty-five, and who for more than half her life has embodied the platonic ideal of what the coolest girl in any room might look and act like, was wearing square-toed cerulean-blue ballerina flats (“Comme des Garçons from the nineties”), paired with short, lacy white socks, and a black slip dress repurposed as a skirt. (“Maison Margiela, also from the nineties. I was watching that documentary series about Michael Jordan—so good!—and this fabric reminded me of basketball shorts.”) She was sitting at the East Village Kosher mainstay B & H Dairy, dining al fresco—although the roar of traffic and sirens on Second Avenue provided an ambience that was less Florentine garden than “Escape from New York.” “I’ve been eating at B & H since ‘Kids,’ ” she said, referring to Larry Clark’s 1995 skater-youth-gone-wild film, in which she had her breakout role. On her lap she was holding her five-month-old son, Vanja, a robust, serene-looking child with alert eyes.
“New customer! Let me see!” Ola Abdelwahed, who owns B & H with her husband, Fawzy, called out, approaching the table. She clucked at Vanja, who blinked calmly. “Blond hair and blue eyes, really Europe style!” she said to his mother. “He gets everything from you!”
Sevigny demurred.“For now! They say it can change. His dad has very dark coloring,” she said, referring to her boyfriend, Sinisa Mackovic, a gallery director. Ola handed the actress a B & H onesie, printed with the words “Challah! Por Favor.” The restaurant has been serving Eastern-European Jewish comfort food like knishes and matzo brei for more than eighty years, but half of its employees are Mexican. Ola is from Poland, and her husband is Egyptian.
“I used to own the falafel place next door,” Fawzy said. “That’s when I met Chloë. It was more a nighttime spot.” He closed it in 2009, a few years after buying B & H. “Chloë is family,” he went on. “She know me when I was nothing.” B & H has had its share of troubles. In 2015, a gas-main explosion in a nearby building led to a months-long closure, and this year the pandemic forced the restaurant to temporarily shut its doors. (A GoFundMe was set up in support of its workers.) After it reopened for limited business, in May, a bottle thrown by a protester shattered the front window. “It almost hit our cook Rafaelo on the head,” Ola said. “It’s, how they say, what do we have to do with this, you know? The business is suffering already.”
Sevigny frowned. “Yeah, and you’re not, like, the Verizon store,” she said. “I’m not into any sort of violence. A safer city is better for all of us.” She began to feed Vanja a bottle of milk. “But I love being in the streets, and it was a little hard not being able to go to the protests. He’s just so little still.” She cooed at the baby, “Don’t worry, you’ll be in the streets later! Won’t you?” She skillfully balanced him in one arm and took a bite of her veggie omelette. “There’s a grittiness here that I like. Tompkins Square Park keeps it really real still,” she said. She lives farther west now. “I wouldn’t come back to live in the East Village. All the bars drove me crazy,” she said. “When we were shooting ‘Kids,’ I didn’t have a place to stay, so I slept over at the costume designer’s house, right above, over there.” She pointed at Fawzy’s old falafel place (now a taquería). “It was one of those bathtubs in the kitchen, toilet down the hall . . .” Her voice trailed off. “There were always junkie works in the bathroom. I’d put up notes: ‘Please don’t leave your stuff here.’ ”
Sevigny is starring in “We Are Who We Are,” Luca Guadagnino’s HBO miniseries, in which she plays a colonel on an American Army base in Italy. There is talk of the show’s being extended, but she’s not sure she would continue. “I don’t want to go back to Italy for four months, with Vanja, without Sinisa. It’s so disruptive,” she said. “And I’ve been doing this since I was nineteen. I don’t want to say I’ve had my career, and I’m sure it’ll continue, but I have to really rethink my choices now.” The farthest she’s gone lately is Connecticut, where she’s been spending weeks at her mother’s house. Would she ever consider leaving New York? “No,” she said, then laughed. “Not even a second-house thing. I’d rather spend my money on a nice holiday.” She hoisted the baby to a standing position on her lap. “Do you want to move to the suburbs, Vanja?” she asked. “That’s O.K. if you want to. You can be square!” ♦


newyorker--2020-10-12--“Vectors,” by Arthur Sze

“Vectors,” by Arthur Sze

First extinction in the Galápagos Islands , the least vermillion flycatcher— Danger , a woman brushed on the side of @ @ @ @ @ oblong box emptied of firewood , a black-widow web— shaving , he nicked himself and @ @ @ @ @ a moment of blood— before signing his name , he recalls hotel rooms were once @ @ @ @ @ Thessaloniki , the beach attendant made a gun of his hand and fired at him— @ @ @ @ @ onstage said , “ Is it not time for my painkiller ?
” — weighing @ @ @ @ @ grins , “ You suffer from suspicion ; I suffer from kindness ” — a @ @ @ @ @ a pile of Krugerrands onto the table— looking up from a tusk under the lamp @ @ @ @ @ “ It ’ s butter in my hands ” —

Audio: Read by the author.
First extinction in the Galápagos Islands, the least vermillion flycatcher—
Hopis drill a foot deep and plant blue corn along a wash—
Danger, a woman brushed on the side of a napalm bomb—
in an oblong box emptied of firewood, a black-widow web—
shaving, he nicked himself and stared in the mirror in a moment of blood—
out of a saddlebag, a teen pulls a severed goat’s head—
before signing his name, he recalls hotel rooms were once used as torture chambers—
in Thessaloniki, the beach attendant made a gun of his hand and fired at him—
prisoners cackled when the inmate onstage said, “Is it not time for my painkiller?”—
weighing mushrooms, the Tibetan cashier grins, “You suffer from suspicion; I suffer from kindness”—
a mercenary turned car mechanic spilled a pile of Krugerrands onto the table—
looking up from a tusk under the lamp, the carver smiled, “It’s butter in my hands”—


newyorker--2020-10-12--“Life Without Children,” by Roddy Doyle

“Life Without Children,” by Roddy Doyle

That ’ s the bucktoothed fucker that builds the dams .
He ’ ll need a name when he goes down there .
His own name is probably neutral , but he doesn ’ t want it .
Mick , Mike , Pete , Stu , Jim , Dave , Shamie , wee Beaver—he hasn ’ t a clue .
They all feel like land mines .
He ’ ll bypass the lads and head straight out into Newcastle .
He takes off the pink shirt and puts on the last clean one .
He takes his passport out of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it in the case , in the bag with the dirty laundry .
He should bring it with him , fling it into the Tyne , slip it into a bin .
If he ’ s being serious , that ’ s what he should do .
He ’ s out of the room .
He stops the door with his foot .
He checks that the room key is in his wallet .
It is—he ’ s on his way .
He ’ s smiling .
He ’ s made himself smile @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The lift doors slide open .
The lift is empty .
He steps in .
The heat , the smell of aftershave , thrown on by men who haven ’ t shaved .
He holds his breath , he leans on nothing , presses the button with his elbow .
It ’ s only two floors .
He ’ s forgotten not to get into the lift .
He ’ ll use the stairs from now on .
From now on ?
He won ’ t be staying here .
He might @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a couple of shirts , a jumper , his passport , the case .
That ’ s all that ’ s up there .
And his iPad—it ’ s on the bed .
He can feel the warmth of the men on his skin , he can see their breath—the droplets—in the air in front of him .
He feels the lift stop , the little jolt .
He ’ s out , sideways , before the doors are fully open .
He can inhale now , if he ’ s careful .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ ; he hears glass hitting the floor tiles .
More sliding doors—he ’ s out .
He can breathe .
This air came over the North Sea ; it ’ s too cold for any virus .
He ’ s on a hill above the river .
As far as he understands , he ’ s not actually in Newcastle ; he ’ s in Gateshead .
Newcastle is the other side of the river .
He can see his route there .
Across a road , around a building site , over @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that he ’ s sure will bring him down to the river and the pedestrian bridge he can see shining below him .
He can see plenty of people on the Newcastle side , but it ’ s quiet here .
There ’ s no traffic at all on the road ; there ’ s no one working on the building site .
The car park gives him the creeps .
Old potholed tarmac ; there are only four or five cars parked in space for hundreds .
One of the cars starts @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it .
He doesn ’ t look through the windscreen .
He doesn ’ t look back , and the tires don ’ t crunch over the tarmac .
He ’ s at the steps down to the river .
He checks his phone .
There ’ s a message—from Sinéad .
He won ’ t stop here .
He ’ ll wait till he gets somewhere , a pub or something , where he can read it properly and answer—if he answers .
He ’ s crossing the river .
This is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his passport into the water .
And his phone .
Into the river without breaking stride .
Whistling “ Fog on the Tyne.
” The river will still be there when he ’ s coming back—if he ’ s coming back .
His boarding pass for the flight home is on his phone .
Everything is on the phone .
The bank , the passwords , the photos , the life .
He ’ ll have a few pints and a pizza , then decide .
He ’ s crossing the bridge and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bridge , returning before he arrives .
He ’ s slowing down ; he can feel it in his legs .
The doubts and the dread—they ’ re turning him back .
It ’ s familiar .
It ’ s been going on for a long time .
He stops halfway across , but not to turn back .
It ’ s the other bridges .
The five , maybe six metal bridges that span the river .
They ’ re great—they ’ re beautiful .
From where he stands , if he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bridge .
He gets out the phone , takes a photo .
He deletes it and puts the phone back into his pocket .
He doesn ’ t want the photo or the urge to send it .
He ’ s moving again .
The energy ’ s back in his legs .
He ’ s in Newcastle now—officially .
He climbs up a street from the river .
There ’ s a gang of big women coming at him .
They ’ re all big , all in black skirts and T-shirts @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and big pink bunny ears .
There are seven or eight of them ; they ’ re singing a song he doesn ’ t know .
It ’ s a hen group , although it ’ s hard to pick out the hen .
One of them shouts just as they reach him .
She ’ s not looking at him as she shouts .
It ’ s not a threat or an invitation .
She does it again .
They ’ re around him , almost going over him .
He @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of them ; he can see the eyeshadow sliding down from the eyes , the shining cheeks .
It ’ s early evening .
The droplets they ’ ll inhale tonight—they ’ ll be dead in days .
Here lies Tracey .
She wanted some cock .
Sinéad has told him that social distancing has become almost natural at home .
She ’ s told him about the polite slalom that walking down the SuperValu aisles has become in the week that he ’ s been gone .
Not here , he ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
There ’ s no distance between the bodies here .
There ’ s another gang of women—they ’ re not girls , they ’ re way too old for girls—charging down the hill .
It ’ s all hills , this town .
They ’ re in pink this time , with black sashes and no ears .
A more sedate group .
They ’ re not shouting for cock .
There ’ s a pub across the way that looks promising , one of the BrewDog places he ’ s read @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the pink hens pass before he crosses .
He should be following them , he thinks .
This is supposed to be his new life .
He ’ ll need cash .
He ’ ll have to go to an A.T.M .
He ’ ll have to tap the silver buttons with a finger .
He ’ ll have to push his card into a slot that infected stags and hens have been rubbing and coughing on all day .
He ’ ll have to do it—touch things , breathe sweat .
He @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pink or the black gang .
He should follow them into whatever bar they commandeer and dive right in .
They ’ ll pour their drinks over him .
They ’ ll sit on him .
They ’ ll probably kill him .
He ’ d stood in another hotel room a few days before—he thinks it was in Manchester—and looked at himself in the mirror as he came out of the bathroom .
He saw his father ’ s legs .
Just for a second , they weren ’ t his , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on sand beside his brother—they were in Cahore , in Wexford—and he was looking at their father as he walked up from the sea , and he came closer and closer and he stopped in front of them and Alan looked through his father ’ s legs as a black dog and three children ran beside the water , from his father ’ s left ankle to his other one .
His father ’ s legs were the door to the sea .
They were pale—it must have been early in the summer—and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and his chest , and there was a line like a river , a blue vein , running down one shin .
He stood in front of the hotel-room mirror and saw that vein in his own leg .
He almost looked behind him , to watch his father coming out of the bathroom .
His father had been dead for seven years .
They were his own legs , but he ’ d become his father .
You ’ re a ringer for your dad .
People had said it at the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ uncanny .
He had the legs of a dead man .
I ’ ll say this , an old friend of his father ’ s had said that day , beside the hearse .
He held on to Alan ’ s hand , and wouldn ’ t give it back .
You ’ re not half the man your father was .
I ’ ll leave it at that .
It ’ s his kind of place , a quiet pub in a mad town .
A few weeks ago , even yesterday @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in—straight in on his father ’ s legs .
He ’ d have been looking through the menu for an I.P.A .
with a daft name that he could photograph and send to his family and a couple of friends .
To remind them—and himself—that he wasn ’ t where he normally was .
He ’ d have opened Google Maps and checked the route from the barstool back to the hotel .
He ’ d have ordered his pint—Born to Die , or Clockwork Tangerine—and he ’ d have quickly convinced himself @ @ @ @ @ @ @ there , too , a burger or a pizza , and he ’ d have been back in the hotel before dark .
The pull of the empty pub is strong .
But he resists and moves on up the hill , on his own legs .
He ’ d have e-mailed the kids .
He ’ d have made sure they all got their own message .
He ’ d have written the one , then adjusted it for each—a verb , a noun , a musical reference .
He ’ d @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pasting .
One pint was the limit for that kind of work .
But he ’ s the man with no kids .
He could turn back .
Not to the hotel , to the BrewDog pub .
A slow pint of Punk I.P.A.—what a name ; fuckin ’ hilarious—and a photo home , the family WhatsApp : Are the pubs shut over there ?
xx .
Here ’ s his chance , though .
He ’ ll find a Wetherspoons , walk right into the happy hour and death .
He ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ killer , never mind the virus .
He doesn ’ t want to get used to the words and the terms , their meanings and consequences—COVID , cluster , at-risk , asymptomatic .
He doesn ’ t want the carefulness .
This way is freedom , back home is boredom and terror .
He can walk up this hill to the life he never had , or walk back down to the life he doesn ’ t want .
He ’ s still feeling exhilarated , although he has to check first .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ does .
He ’ s still out in the air , though .
He ’ s socially distant .
He hasn ’ t burrowed into the crowd .
He ’ s a bit manic , and tired .
And a bit feverish , maybe .
His throat is dry .
But that ’ s from the climb .
He ’ s anxious .
This is what he has to stop .
The roll call of the adjectives .
The running commentary that comes with everything he does and thinks .
The self-assessments that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ re shit , you ’ re weak , you ’ re just not good enough .
Is he anxious now , though ?
He isn ’ t .
He thinks he isn ’ t anxious .
But he isn ’ t sure .
He doesn ’ t know what time it is .
He doesn ’ t know the name of the street .
He could turn back and go straight down to the river and he ’ d see the hotel on the other side .
But that ’ s not the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ corner soon , and another—more than likely .
And he won ’ t note them , or care .
He ’ s bringing his sense of direction—it ’ s good , it ’ s reliable .
But he won ’ t be using it .
He takes out his phone .
The bin ’ s overflowing .
There are wasps bopping around it .
At this time of year ?
At this time of day ?
He pushes the phone down , under a squashed McDonald ’ s bag , and further down @ @ @ @ @ @ @ He makes himself walk away .
It ’ s the hardest thing he ’ s ever done .
But he ’ s done it .
He ’ s done the mad thing .
He ’ d said it to Sinéad on the way home in the taxi .
—Was that a party , was it ?
—Were we at a party there ?
He could see the driver ’ s eyes in the rearview , looking away .
—Well , he said .
Parties .
They used to be obvious .
They ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ d caught her as she started to fall backwards down the stairs with a bottle of Heineken in each hand .
—But tonight , he said .
For fuck sake .
Is it our age ?
—No one vomited , she said .
Is that what you mean ?
Is that what you ’ re pining for ?
—Kind of , he said .
It was just a bit of a nonevent .
Wasn ’ t it ?
—I enjoyed it , she said .
—Not really , she said .
No @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Me , too .
The man of the house had wanted to show Alan his desk .
Alan hardly knew him ; they met maybe twice a year .
He knew him because he was married to Orla , who had gone to school with Sinéad ’ s sister .
He didn ’ t have his number or his e-mail , and he had to remind himself of the man ’ s name—Geoff—every time they were about to meet .
It had occurred to Alan tonight that Geoff had done the same @ @ @ @ @ @ @ arrived .
He ’ d asked Orla what Sinéad ’ s husband was called .
He remembered women ’ s names ; it was the men who were vague .
But Geoff worked at home—Alan hadn ’ t a clue what he did—and he ’ d got himself a desk that allowed him to stand as he worked .
—That must be some fuckin ’ desk , another of the husbands said .
Do you have to ask its permission if you want to stand up ?

—Tracey wants some cock!
She’s not looking at him as she shouts. It’s not a threat or an invitation.
She does it again.
—Tracey wants some cock!
—She fooking does, too!
They’re around him, almost going over him. He can feel their heat, the mass of them; he can see the eyeshadow sliding down from the eyes, the shining cheeks. It’s early evening. The droplets they’ll inhale tonight—they’ll be dead in days. Here lies Tracey. She wanted some cock.
Sinéad has told him that social distancing has become almost natural at home. She’s told him about the polite slalom that walking down the SuperValu aisles has become in the week that he’s been gone. Not here, he’ll tell her—he wants to tell her. There’s no distance between the bodies here.
There’s another gang of women—they’re not girls, they’re way too old for girls—charging down the hill. It’s all hills, this town. They’re in pink this time, with black sashes and no ears. A more sedate group. They’re not shouting for cock.
There’s a pub across the way that looks promising, one of the BrewDog places he’s read about. He’ll wait till the pink hens pass before he crosses. He should be following them, he thinks. This is supposed to be his new life.
“Look, I’m a real New Yorker—I remember when this was nothing but bank branches.” Cartoon by Emily Flake Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
He’ll need cash. He’ll have to go to an A.T.M. He’ll have to tap the silver buttons with a finger. He’ll have to push his card into a slot that infected stags and hens have been rubbing and coughing on all day. He’ll have to do it—touch things, breathe sweat. He really should follow those women. The pink or the black gang. He should follow them into whatever bar they commandeer and dive right in. They’ll pour their drinks over him. They’ll sit on him. They’ll probably kill him.
He’d stood in another hotel room a few days before—he thinks it was in Manchester—and looked at himself in the mirror as he came out of the bathroom. He saw his father’s legs. Just for a second, they weren’t his, Alan’s. He was sitting on sand beside his brother—they were in Cahore, in Wexford—and he was looking at their father as he walked up from the sea, and he came closer and closer and he stopped in front of them and Alan looked through his father’s legs as a black dog and three children ran beside the water, from his father’s left ankle to his other one. His father’s legs were the door to the sea. They were pale—it must have been early in the summer—and they were hairless, unlike his arms and his chest, and there was a line like a river, a blue vein, running down one shin. He stood in front of the hotel-room mirror and saw that vein in his own leg. He almost looked behind him, to watch his father coming out of the bathroom. His father had been dead for seven years. They were his own legs, but he’d become his father. You’re a ringer for your dad. People had said it at the funeral. It’s fuckin’ uncanny. He had the legs of a dead man. I’ll say this, an old friend of his father’s had said that day, beside the hearse. He held on to Alan’s hand, and wouldn’t give it back. You’re not half the man your father was. I’ll leave it at that.
He looks in the pub window. The place is nearly empty. It makes no sense. Both sides of the street are heaving, but there are only two punters inside. They’re together, a woman and a man—close to his age, he thinks—but they’re not talking. He looks away, and back to the window, in case it’s a trick of the light, the late-afternoon sun hiding a line of people sitting at the bar. But no—there’s no change. It’s still just the two in there.
It’s his kind of place, a quiet pub in a mad town. A few weeks ago, even yesterday, he’d have been straight in—straight in on his father’s legs. He’d have been looking through the menu for an I.P.A. with a daft name that he could photograph and send to his family and a couple of friends. To remind them—and himself—that he wasn’t where he normally was. He’d have opened Google Maps and checked the route from the barstool back to the hotel. He’d have ordered his pint—Born to Die, or Clockwork Tangerine—and he’d have quickly convinced himself that it made good sense to eat there, too, a burger or a pizza, and he’d have been back in the hotel before dark.
The pull of the empty pub is strong. But he resists and moves on up the hill, on his own legs.
He’d have e-mailed the kids. He’d have made sure they all got their own message. He’d have written the one, then adjusted it for each—a verb, a noun, a musical reference. He’d have spent half the night cutting and pasting. One pint was the limit for that kind of work.
But he’s the man with no kids.
He could turn back. Not to the hotel, to the BrewDog pub. A slow pint of Punk I.P.A.—what a name; fuckin’ hilarious—and a photo home, the family WhatsApp: Are the pubs shut over there? xx.
Here’s his chance, though. He’ll find a Wetherspoons, walk right into the happy hour and death. He’s sweating. The hill is a killer, never mind the virus. He doesn’t want to get used to the words and the terms, their meanings and consequences—COVID, cluster, at-risk, asymptomatic. He doesn’t want the carefulness. This way is freedom, back home is boredom and terror. He can walk up this hill to the life he never had, or walk back down to the life he doesn’t want. He’s still feeling exhilarated, although he has to check first. He believes what he’s doing—he does. He’s still out in the air, though. He’s socially distant. He hasn’t burrowed into the crowd. He’s a bit manic, and tired. And a bit feverish, maybe. His throat is dry. But that’s from the climb. He’s anxious.
This is what he has to stop. The roll call of the adjectives. The running commentary that comes with everything he does and thinks. The self-assessments that have always crippled him. You’re shit, you’re weak, you’re just not good enough.
Is he anxious now, though? He isn’t. He thinks he isn’t anxious. But he isn’t sure. He doesn’t know what time it is. He doesn’t know the name of the street. He could turn back and go straight down to the river and he’d see the hotel on the other side. But that’s not the point. He’ll turn a corner soon, and another—more than likely. And he won’t note them, or care. He’s bringing his sense of direction—it’s good, it’s reliable. But he won’t be using it.
There’s a rubbish bin up ahead.
He takes out his phone.
The bin’s overflowing. There are wasps bopping around it. At this time of year? At this time of day? He pushes the phone down, under a squashed McDonald’s bag, and further down. He lets go of it. He makes himself walk away. It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.
But he’s done it. He’s done the mad thing.
They were at a party, about a year ago. But he couldn’t tell anymore if it was a party or just a group of people standing around in the same house.
He’d said it to Sinéad on the way home in the taxi.
—Was that a party, was it?
—What?
—Were we at a party there?
He could see the driver’s eyes in the rearview, looking away.
—What d’you mean? she asked.
—Well, he said. Parties. They used to be obvious.
They’d met at a party. He’d caught her as she started to fall backwards down the stairs with a bottle of Heineken in each hand.
—But tonight, he said. For fuck sake. Is it our age?
—No one vomited, she said. Is that what you mean? Is that what you’re pining for?
—Kind of, he said. It was just a bit of a nonevent. Wasn’t it?
—I enjoyed it, she said.
—Did you?
—Not really, she said. No.
—No, he’d said. Me, too.
—We missed “Succession,” Al.
He laughed.
The man of the house had wanted to show Alan his desk. Alan hardly knew him; they met maybe twice a year. He knew him because he was married to Orla, who had gone to school with Sinéad’s sister. He didn’t have his number or his e-mail, and he had to remind himself of the man’s name—Geoff—every time they were about to meet. It had occurred to Alan tonight that Geoff had done the same thing, half an hour before they arrived. He’d asked Orla what Sinéad’s husband was called. He remembered women’s names; it was the men who were vague. But Geoff worked at home—Alan hadn’t a clue what he did—and he’d got himself a desk that allowed him to stand as he worked.
—That must be some fuckin’ desk, another of the husbands said. Do you have to ask its permission if you want to stand up?
—I have a back thing, Geoff told them, and some of the other men nodded. They had back things, too.
Alan had gone upstairs to the toilet, and Geoff had followed him up.
—I’ll show it to you when you get out, he said, as Alan shut the jacks door.
—Grand.
He’d spent a good while washing his hands, and there was no sign of Geoff when he came out. There was no one on the landing. But he heard the voice.
—Alan?
—Yeah?
—I’m in here.
There was an open door to Alan’s right. He went to the door and looked in. There was a long desk—it looked like a delicatessen counter—almost across the width of the room. There was a laptop, closed, and a lamp. There was Geoff. There was a mattress in one of the corners.
—I sleep there, Geoff said.
He looked at Alan.
Alan said nothing. He looked at the desk. He looked at Geoff. The man knew no one. He’d no one else he could tell. Alan remembered the walls. They were pink. It had been a daughter’s bedroom.
He didn’t tell Sinéad. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t have got past the walls. He’d have cried.
—Will we watch it when we get home?
—It’s too late.
—Go on, Al, she said. Be wild.
—O.K., he said. A bit of it. I might fall asleep.
—That’s permitted.
He’s got rid of the phone.
He’s happy with that. It seems enough—the act, the protest. He turns and heads back down the street. He’ll have the pint in the BrewDog pub. He’ll order a pizza, a spicy one that will make the back of his head sweat. He’ll go back to the hotel. He’ll go up the stairs to his room. He’ll wash his hands for twenty seconds. He’ll take his shoes off and get up on the bed. He’ll use his iPad to change his flight to tomorrow morning. He’ll call Sinéad on the iPad. He’ll tell her he lost his phone. He’ll tell her his new flight details. He’ll tell her what he’s seen and heard tonight. He’ll tell her that Tracey wants some cock. ♦


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Each week, we provide a cartoon in need of a caption. You, the reader, submit your caption here, we choose three finalists, and you vote for your favorite. Anyone age thirteen or older can enter or vote. To read the complete rules, click here.
Michael Maslin Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop


newyorker--2020-10-12--Amy Coney Barrett Supports Health Care Available in Year Constitution Was Written

WASHINGTON ( The Borowitz Report ) —Claiming that she has been unfairly branded as anti-health care , Amy Coney Barrett @ @ @ @ @ all medical treatments that were available in the year the United States Constitution was written @ @ @ @ @ , Antonin Scalia , Barrett said that she considers herself a “ strict originalist ” @ @ @ @ @ health-care practices that the Framers of the Constitution used in 1787 .
“ For example @ @ @ @ @ headaches , fevers , and agues is arsenic , a wondrous elixir prescribed by many @ @ @ @ @ ” she said .
“ ’ Twill serve.
” As for preëxisting conditions , Barrett @ @ @ @ @ maladies that preëxisted the late eighteenth century , such as dropsy , King ’ s @ @ @ @ @ s palsy .
Finally , although Barrett did not reveal whether she would vote to @ @ @ @ @ said that the law should be rewritten so that its lowercase “ S ” s @ @ @ @ @ ” s .

WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—Claiming that she has been unfairly branded as anti-health care, Amy Coney Barrett testified that she strongly supports all medical treatments that were available in the year the United States Constitution was written.
Like her role model, Antonin Scalia, Barrett said that she considers herself a “strict originalist” and therefore advocates only the health-care practices that the Framers of the Constitution used in 1787.
“For example, the best cure for headaches, fevers, and agues is arsenic, a wondrous elixir prescribed by many a Doctor of Physick,” she said. “ ’Twill serve.”
As for preëxisting conditions, Barrett said that she only acknowledges maladies that preëxisted the late eighteenth century, such as dropsy, King’s Evil, and scrivener’s palsy.
Finally, although Barrett did not reveal whether she would vote to strike down Obamacare, she said that the law should be rewritten so that its lowercase “S”s look more like “f”s.


newyorker--2020-10-12--The Uncertain Promises of Indoor Dining in New York City

By now , it ’ s hard to recall that brief window of time in New York in early March , between our unfettered pre-pandemic life and the start of public shutdowns and self-quarantining , which we have now been enduring for nearly seven months .
Venues in Chinatown had been among the first to experience a decline in business , fuelled by racist fears of the virus , which was first identified in the Chinese city of Wuhan .
But by the time Mayor Bill de Blasio announced a mandated closure of all bars and restaurants—which , after Governor @ @ @ @ @ @ @ took effect on March 16th—the entire city was already slowing down , an anti-crescendo of public activity .
After my meal at Wu ’ s , I hugged my friend goodbye and then spent hours walking eerily empty streets : from the Lower East Side to the West Village and the High Line , which was nearly void of tourists ; from there to a desolate Times Square , where a YouTuber in a hazmat suit was waiting for pedestrians to interview on camera .
At one point , I dipped into the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and Broadway to use the ladies ’ room .
It was the last time I would enter a restaurant for nearly seven months .
I finally broke this streak last week , at Randazzo ’ s Clam Bar , the venerable seafood joint in Sheepshead Bay , Brooklyn , the day after indoor dining in New York City was allowed to resume at twenty-five-per-cent capacity .
To the side of Randazzo ’ s , the restaurant ’ s outdoor seating area was full of people slurping clams and beer and gazing across traffic-clogged @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and the narrow , glittering bay .
Outdoor dining in New York , which resumed in late June , has been a revelation : the constructed patios that now fill parking lanes throughout the boroughs make the streets narrower , giving more space to people and less to cars , creating a village-square atmosphere , a gently European vibe .
I ’ ve sat at Randazzo ’ s outdoor tables a few times in recent months , but this time I headed for the restaurant ’ s glass front door , which was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ masks .
Just before the threshold , I paused and found myself mustering up the sort of deep-breath courage usually reserved for a jump off the high-dive platform or a declaration of love : You can do this .
Just open the door .
The resumption of indoor dining is a vexing milestone on New York City ’ s jagged path to recovery .
Between February and August , an estimated forty-five per cent of the city ’ s restaurant workers—some hundred and forty thousand people—lost their jobs ; delivery services , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ends meet on takeout orders , have bit into already precarious profit margins with predatory glee .
Early in the pandemic , Eater started keeping a running list of establishments that had permanently closed—now numbering in the hundreds—and I ’ ve found myself checking it daily , compulsively refreshing the page .
Lucky Strike , Soho ’ s cool-as-hell French bistro , was one of the first to go ; the East Village lost an icon , the egg-cream emporium Gem Spa , in May , and another , the Ukrainian restaurant Odessa @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of ropa vieja and fried rice weren ’ t enough to protect La Caridad 78 , the grimy and beautiful Cuban-Chinese king of the Upper West Side , which announced its closure at the end of July .
The casualties have not been limited to independent businesses : that midtown McDonald ’ s in which I availed myself of the facilities—a four-story , seventeen-thousand-and-five-hundred-square-foot temple to special sauce , with a Broadway-style marquee covered in thousands of flickering light bulbs—closed forever in June .
At the time , a McDonald ’ s spokesperson @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Sure .
According to New York City ’ s original reopening timeline , which reintroduced indoor dining in July—on a delay from the rest of the state—by now we might have been at fifty-per-cent capacity , if not seventy-five .
But that plan was spiked a week before it was intended to go into place , in response to the upswing in COVID-19 cases elsewhere in the country .
The city loosened its famously rigid outdoor dining permitting , allowing virtually all restaurants to set up ersatz dining rooms on sidewalks and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the City Council voted to allow restaurants to add a ten-per-cent surcharge to customers ’ bills , a clever bit of consumer psychology that allows restaurants to boost revenue without raising the prices on their menus .
But , as the chef Alex Stupak pointed out to me recently , the surcharge , which is optional , puts restaurants in an awkward position .
“ All the restaurateurs are looking at each other being , like , ‘ I don ’ t know .
Are you doing it ?
’ ” Stupak told @ @ @ @ @ @ @ money , but , at the same time , if you take the cost of food and drink , plus surcharge , plus tip , then plus tax , you ’ re talking about a thirty-nine-per-cent fee collectively on top of the bill .
How are people going to respond to that ?
” Stupak is the owner of Manhattan ’ s four Empellón restaurants .
Two of them , taquerias in the East and West Villages , have stayed open to surprisingly booming takeout and outdoor business ( an outcome he attributes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and to the pandemic-proof allure of tacos and margaritas ) and reopened for indoor dining on September 30th .
Since the very start of the city ’ s reopening , Stupak told me , every policy has come in two waves : implementation and then amendment .
“ First , they said we can sell alcohol to go , then three weeks later every street turned into Bourbon Street , and the governor puts out new rules , ” he explained .
“ With outdoor dining , everyone built their setups , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Whoa , it has to be eight feet off a crosswalk , fifteen feet off of a fire hydrant ; you can not build it anywhere in a road where there ’ s a bus station.
’ ” Stupak ’ s restaurants already had the required ultra-fine filters in their H.V.A.C .
system ; he ’ s bought smiley-face gold-star stickers to put on the hands of customers who ’ ve had their temperatures taken , and designed and hung more rules-and-regulations signage than he has ever seen before in his career @ @ @ @ @ @ @ trying to play Nostradamus , ” he said .
“ We ’ re trying to figure out all the other indoor-dining rules that they haven ’ t thought of yet , that they ’ re going to think of three weeks from now.
” Nicole Ponseca , the owner of the East Village ’ s marvellous Filipino restaurant Jeepney , told me that she was not planning to resume indoor dining .
It was a “ painful and easy decision , simultaneously , ” she said .
Unlike Stupak , Ponseca doesn ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that meets new government requirements ; she told me that upgrading might cost her about two thousand dollars , but without a reliable flow of customers , it ’ s not an investment that makes sense .
( Fifty blocks and several tax brackets away , inside the walls of Le Bernardin—a plutocrat canteen where dinner and an insouciant little Burgundy or two can easily kick the bill above a thousand dollars a head—returning diners now breathe air that , the journalist Gary He reports in his pandemic-fine-dining newsletter Astrolabe , circulates through @ @ @ @ @ @ @ been installed at the White House , Google ’ s headquarters , and Harvard University.
” ) Between sidewalk seating and the back garden , she has sixty outdoor seats , close to her usual indoor capacity .
“ But it wouldn ’ t have mattered if I had a hundred more seats , because the volume is just not there like it was , ” she said .
“ My business was based on tourism , large-party dining , and Tinder dates , ” she said , “ and COVID took away @ @ @ @ @ @ @ later , Bill de Blasio announced that , owing to a troubling rise in infection rates in a handful of New York City neighborhoods , certain areas in Brooklyn and Queens would be returning to earlier anti-COVID-19 measures ; Governor Cuomo ( who can never resist a jurisdictional flex on the Mayor ) said the next day that the matter would be handled by the state .
Large portions of Brooklyn and Queens are now considered hotspots and subject to restrictions of varying intensities—in the red zones , areas where COVID-19 numbers are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ outdoor dining has been suspended .
Randazzo ’ s is located in a yellow zone , where restaurant service has not been affected , but it ’ s just a few blocks south of where the map becomes orange—no indoor dining .
If the worst happens , and the red zone spreads , “ we ’ d have to resort to takeout and delivery like everyone else , ” Michael Geraci , a member of the Randazzo family , told me over the phone .
“ We were able to get through that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they do restrict everybody again it doesn ’ t last as long as the first time .
But we don ’ t know .
Just when you ’ re starting to get going , and you feel a little bit of momentum , and you ’ re excited for the promise of fifty-per-cent capacity—it ’ s frustrating , it really is.
” It ’ s getting tiresome to keep reminding ourselves that it didn ’ t have to be this way .
“ I think , as a first-world country , America has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Orleans chef Nina Compton told me earlier this year .
“ You have European countries where people are getting paid seventy-five per cent of their salaries , businesses who have received rent abatement , and those things have kept people alive .
And we haven ’ t gotten a single break.
” Many would-be diners fear that going to restaurants is an un-worthwhile ethical compromise , one that potentially imperils their own health and that of the workers who make sit-down restaurant meals happen—and who often have little job security and no health @ @ @ @ @ @ @ workplace can ’ t be insulated against asymptomatic carriers of the virus , or the occasional unruly customer .
( Stupak told me that , to protect his staff , he ’ s started closing his restaurants earlier in the evening : “ Chances are , if someone ’ s going to be a dickhead about wearing a mask , that ’ s going to happen more at midnight , when they ’ re drunk , than at 7 P.M. , ” he said . )
Servers , line cooks , and other @ @ @ @ @ @ @ protect their incomes or protect their health .
Even now , after seven months , the nation ’ s half million restaurants ( and the eleven million people they employ ) are still fighting for government support on par with that of , say , airlines or cruise operators .
Last week , chefs and restaurateurs cheered the passage in the House of Representatives of the HEROES Act , a $ 2.2 trillion coronavirus Hail Mary that reinstates a weekly six-hundred-dollar unemployment supplement that lapsed at the end of July , and also @ @ @ @ @ @ @ restaurant recovery .
But the bill , spearheaded by Democrats , is unlikely to make any headway in the Republican-controlled Senate , and President Trump abruptly announced , on Tuesday , that he would be suspending any further negotiation of COVID-19 relief until after Election Day .
Absent any meaningful federal support , the work of propping up devastated industries ( and the people they employ ) falls to the states and cities ; in New York , this overwhelmingly takes the form of easing the paths of commerce , rather than any @ @ @ @ @ @ @ timeline , the COVID-19 surcharge—even the free sandbags the city recently offered to restaurants , to help ballast their outdoor dining structures—all , in the end , place the burden of financial support on individuals , and individual transactions .
This grinding moral calculus leaves us with a fallacious sense of personal responsibility and misplaced blame .
In recent months , I ’ ve seen chefs and restaurateurs lash out on social media at those whom they deem insufficiently supportive of the industry ’ s return .
Those declining to eat in restaurants @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are complicit in the economic suffering of their businesses and employees .
( The crisis is unimaginably severe , and the stress is nearly unbearable , but such a position seems rooted more in existential terror than in logic . )
There are , of course , ways to be supportive without prioritizing capital over safety : early in the pandemic , when the mass extinction of small businesses was looming , I purchased more logo-emblazoned sweatshirts , coffee mugs , and tote bags than one human ever ought to own , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ same .
Still , it is obvious that restaurants will not be saved by T-shirt sales alone .
I ’ ve found a measure of relief in a simple piece of advice passed along by a friend : pick three businesses that matter to you and your community—a manageable number—and then pour everything you can into making sure they come out O.K .
on the other side .
But , in September , during a Zoom conversation I had with the chef David Chang to promote his new memoir , he put the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ invoking philosophy ’ s infamous trolley problem : “ I think ninety per cent of independent restaurants are going to die , ” he said .
“ We need to start to choose which ones we want to prop up .
”

A thousand years ago, on March 11th of this year, I went with a friend to Wu’s Wonton King, a Chinatown gem that since its opening, in 2016, has become famous for, somehow, everything: the glorious array of dim sum, the exquisitely tender barbecued meats, the fishes, eels, and crabs plucked live from tanks in the windows, à la minute. Normally, when I visit Wu’s, it’s with a strategically large group so that we can order all of the above and more, and then bring home whatever our groaning insides can’t fit. On this particular day, I was with just one other person, and we split an uncharacteristically austere order of steamed pork buns and a bowl of noodle soup. We were the only people in the restaurant, which could have been partly attributable to our timing—it was a Wednesday morning, too late to be breakfast but too early to count as an early lunch—but almost certainly also had to do with the encroaching coronavirus pandemic, which was just beginning to make itself known in New York.
By now, it’s hard to recall that brief window of time in New York in early March, between our unfettered pre-pandemic life and the start of public shutdowns and self-quarantining, which we have now been enduring for nearly seven months. Venues in Chinatown had been among the first to experience a decline in business, fuelled by racist fears of the virus, which was first identified in the Chinese city of Wuhan. But by the time Mayor Bill de Blasio announced a mandated closure of all bars and restaurants—which, after Governor Andrew Cuomo accelerated the original timeline, took effect on March 16th—the entire city was already slowing down, an anti-crescendo of public activity. After my meal at Wu’s, I hugged my friend goodbye and then spent hours walking eerily empty streets: from the Lower East Side to the West Village and the High Line, which was nearly void of tourists; from there to a desolate Times Square, where a YouTuber in a hazmat suit was waiting for pedestrians to interview on camera. At one point, I dipped into the vast McDonald’s on Forty-second Street and Broadway to use the ladies’ room. It was the last time I would enter a restaurant for nearly seven months.
I finally broke this streak last week, at Randazzo’s Clam Bar, the venerable seafood joint in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, the day after indoor dining in New York City was allowed to resume at twenty-five-per-cent capacity. To the side of Randazzo’s, the restaurant’s outdoor seating area was full of people slurping clams and beer and gazing across traffic-clogged Emmons Avenue at the empty fishing-boat slips and the narrow, glittering bay. Outdoor dining in New York, which resumed in late June, has been a revelation: the constructed patios that now fill parking lanes throughout the boroughs make the streets narrower, giving more space to people and less to cars, creating a village-square atmosphere, a gently European vibe. I’ve sat at Randazzo’s outdoor tables a few times in recent months, but this time I headed for the restaurant’s glass front door, which was papered with flyers reminding diners to wear masks. Just before the threshold, I paused and found myself mustering up the sort of deep-breath courage usually reserved for a jump off the high-dive platform or a declaration of love: You can do this. Just open the door.
The resumption of indoor dining is a vexing milestone on New York City’s jagged path to recovery. Between February and August, an estimated forty-five per cent of the city’s restaurant workers—some hundred and forty thousand people—lost their jobs; delivery services, a lifeline for businesses now trying to make ends meet on takeout orders, have bit into already precarious profit margins with predatory glee. Early in the pandemic, Eater started keeping a running list of establishments that had permanently closed—now numbering in the hundreds—and I’ve found myself checking it daily, compulsively refreshing the page. Lucky Strike, Soho’s cool-as-hell French bistro, was one of the first to go; the East Village lost an icon, the egg-cream emporium Gem Spa, in May, and another, the Ukrainian restaurant Odessa, two months later; takeout orders of ropa vieja and fried rice weren’t enough to protect La Caridad 78, the grimy and beautiful Cuban-Chinese king of the Upper West Side, which announced its closure at the end of July. The casualties have not been limited to independent businesses: that midtown McDonald’s in which I availed myself of the facilities—a four-story, seventeen-thousand-and-five-hundred-square-foot temple to special sauce, with a Broadway-style marquee covered in thousands of flickering light bulbs—closed forever in June. At the time, a McDonald’s spokesperson claimed that it was unrelated to COVID-19. Sure.
According to New York City’s original reopening timeline, which reintroduced indoor dining in July—on a delay from the rest of the state—by now we might have been at fifty-per-cent capacity, if not seventy-five. But that plan was spiked a week before it was intended to go into place, in response to the upswing in COVID-19 cases elsewhere in the country. The city loosened its famously rigid outdoor dining permitting, allowing virtually all restaurants to set up ersatz dining rooms on sidewalks and in parking lanes, and last month the City Council voted to allow restaurants to add a ten-per-cent surcharge to customers’ bills, a clever bit of consumer psychology that allows restaurants to boost revenue without raising the prices on their menus. But, as the chef Alex Stupak pointed out to me recently, the surcharge, which is optional, puts restaurants in an awkward position. “All the restaurateurs are looking at each other being, like, ‘I don’t know. Are you doing it?’ ” Stupak told me. “We could use the money, but, at the same time, if you take the cost of food and drink, plus surcharge, plus tip, then plus tax, you’re talking about a thirty-nine-per-cent fee collectively on top of the bill. How are people going to respond to that?”
Stupak is the owner of Manhattan’s four Empellón restaurants. Two of them, taquerias in the East and West Villages, have stayed open to surprisingly booming takeout and outdoor business (an outcome he attributes to their position in residential neighborhoods, and to the pandemic-proof allure of tacos and margaritas) and reopened for indoor dining on September 30th. Since the very start of the city’s reopening, Stupak told me, every policy has come in two waves: implementation and then amendment. “First, they said we can sell alcohol to go, then three weeks later every street turned into Bourbon Street, and the governor puts out new rules,” he explained. “With outdoor dining, everyone built their setups, and then three weeks later they said, “Whoa, it has to be eight feet off a crosswalk, fifteen feet off of a fire hydrant; you cannot build it anywhere in a road where there’s a bus station.’ ” Stupak’s restaurants already had the required ultra-fine filters in their H.V.A.C. system; he’s bought smiley-face gold-star stickers to put on the hands of customers who’ve had their temperatures taken, and designed and hung more rules-and-regulations signage than he has ever seen before in his career. “But we’re also trying to play Nostradamus,” he said. “We’re trying to figure out all the other indoor-dining rules that they haven’t thought of yet, that they’re going to think of three weeks from now.”
Nicole Ponseca, the owner of the East Village’s marvellous Filipino restaurant Jeepney, told me that she was not planning to resume indoor dining. It was a “painful and easy decision, simultaneously,” she said. Unlike Stupak, Ponseca doesn’t already have an H.V.A.C. system that meets new government requirements; she told me that upgrading might cost her about two thousand dollars, but without a reliable flow of customers, it’s not an investment that makes sense. (Fifty blocks and several tax brackets away, inside the walls of Le Bernardin—a plutocrat canteen where dinner and an insouciant little Burgundy or two can easily kick the bill above a thousand dollars a head—returning diners now breathe air that, the journalist Gary He reports in his pandemic-fine-dining newsletter Astrolabe, circulates through the same filtration system that “has been installed at the White House, Google’s headquarters, and Harvard University.”) Between sidewalk seating and the back garden, she has sixty outdoor seats, close to her usual indoor capacity. “But it wouldn’t have mattered if I had a hundred more seats, because the volume is just not there like it was,” she said. “My business was based on tourism, large-party dining, and Tinder dates,” she said, “and COVID took away all three.”
I have a reliable order at Randazzo’s: chowder, steamers, baked clams, fried calamari with “regular sauce,” and a triumphant lobster fra diavolo—though, as with my go-to’s at Wu’s Wonton King, such a feast requires a table full of friends. When I slipped in the door last week, I was unaccompanied. It was midday, and, despite the crowd outside, the interior of the restaurant was nearly empty. The long counter, normally cluttered with bar chairs, was now cleared of all but three. The ones at either end were occupied by large, T-shirted men eating soup; I sat at the one in the middle. I declined a menu and ordered a highly abbreviated version of my usual: baked clams and a Coke. A muted flat-screen TV was showing the Reds game, Teena Marie crooned “Lovergirl” over the sound system, and the skeleton crew of masked waitresses and busboys passed in and out to pick up food for the outdoor tables. When the plate of littlenecks landed in front of me, golden hills of butter and breadcrumbs swimming in a briny sea, I tugged my mask under my chin and began to eat.
Just a few days later, Bill de Blasio announced that, owing to a troubling rise in infection rates in a handful of New York City neighborhoods, certain areas in Brooklyn and Queens would be returning to earlier anti-COVID-19 measures; Governor Cuomo (who can never resist a jurisdictional flex on the Mayor) said the next day that the matter would be handled by the state. Large portions of Brooklyn and Queens are now considered hotspots and subject to restrictions of varying intensities—in the red zones, areas where COVID-19 numbers are rising most precipitously, both indoor and outdoor dining has been suspended. Randazzo’s is located in a yellow zone, where restaurant service has not been affected, but it’s just a few blocks south of where the map becomes orange—no indoor dining. If the worst happens, and the red zone spreads, “we’d have to resort to takeout and delivery like everyone else,” Michael Geraci, a member of the Randazzo family, told me over the phone. “We were able to get through that the first time, and hopefully if they do restrict everybody again it doesn’t last as long as the first time. But we don’t know. Just when you’re starting to get going, and you feel a little bit of momentum, and you’re excited for the promise of fifty-per-cent capacity—it’s frustrating, it really is.”
It’s getting tiresome to keep reminding ourselves that it didn’t have to be this way. “I think, as a first-world country, America has dropped the ball,” the New Orleans chef Nina Compton told me earlier this year. “You have European countries where people are getting paid seventy-five per cent of their salaries, businesses who have received rent abatement, and those things have kept people alive. And we haven’t gotten a single break.” Many would-be diners fear that going to restaurants is an un-worthwhile ethical compromise, one that potentially imperils their own health and that of the workers who make sit-down restaurant meals happen—and who often have little job security and no health insurance. Even the most meticulously hygienic workplace can’t be insulated against asymptomatic carriers of the virus, or the occasional unruly customer. (Stupak told me that, to protect his staff, he’s started closing his restaurants earlier in the evening: “Chances are, if someone’s going to be a dickhead about wearing a mask, that’s going to happen more at midnight, when they’re drunk, than at 7 P.M.,” he said.) Servers, line cooks, and other restaurant workers face an impossible dilemma: protect their incomes or protect their health.


newyorker--2020-10-12--Anthony Fauci, Then and Now

Anthony Fauci, Then and Now

At the moment when Donald Trump was leaving Walter Reed hospital , not yet recovered from COVID-19 , Dr. Anthony Fauci sat down with Michael Specter to discuss the coronavirus and its impact on America .
For the President—and for those of us counting on a vaccine to miraculously deliver us back to normalcy—Fauci offers a reality check .
“ Let ’ s say we have a vaccine and it ’ s seventy per cent effective .
But only sixty per cent of the people [ are likely to ] get vaccinated .
The vaccine will greatly help us , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ eliminate mask-wearing , avoiding crowds , and things like that.
” Specter , who covered Fauci ’ s work in public health during the AIDS crisis , asks him about his relationship with activists in the nineteen-eighties and today .
“ The [ AIDS ] activists never threatened us in a serious way , they wanted to gain our attention , ” Fauci says .
“ Their motivations were all pure.
” Opponents of masks and lockdowns , he believes , intend to do harm .
“ The threats that we get now @ @ @ @ @ @ @ harassment of family .
.
.
.
That requires our needing security .
”

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Photograph by Oliver Contreras / UPI / Alamy
At the moment when Donald Trump was leaving Walter Reed hospital, not yet recovered from COVID-19, Dr. Anthony Fauci sat down with Michael Specter to discuss the coronavirus and its impact on America. For the President—and for those of us counting on a vaccine to miraculously deliver us back to normalcy—Fauci offers a reality check. “Let’s say we have a vaccine and it’s seventy per cent effective. But only sixty per cent of the people [are likely to] get vaccinated. The vaccine will greatly help us, but it’s not going to eliminate mask-wearing, avoiding crowds, and things like that.” Specter, who covered Fauci’s work in public health during the AIDS crisis, asks him about his relationship with activists in the nineteen-eighties and today. “The [AIDS] activists never threatened us in a serious way, they wanted to gain our attention,” Fauci says. “Their motivations were all pure.” Opponents of masks and lockdowns, he believes, intend to do harm. “The threats that we get now are real. Threats on life, harassment of family. . . . That requires our needing security.”
Michael Specter’s biographical audiobook, “Fauci,” is available from Pushkin.


newyorker--2020-10-12--Mike Mandel’s Selfies from the Seventies

Curiosity is the animating force of “ Myself.
” As in the zippy photos of Jacques Henri Lartigue—whom Mandel cites as an influence on the project—craft or technique is less important than energy and immediacy .
And you get the sense that most of these strangers are happy to be photographed with Mandel , happy to be suddenly invited into the picture : in one , a wedding party angles themselves toward the camera as Mandel grins , cross-legged , at their feet .
Maybe their pleasure had to do with the relative novelty , in 1971 , of being @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stranger , in public .
There was still a sense of occasion : film was a set of limited exposures , each one valuable , requiring an outlay of time and money .
We are so inured , now , to both the throwaway nature of a photograph—we can take an endless number—and the ubiquity of cameras .
We know how easily public life is documented and have come almost to expect the constant possibility of being recorded .
Unlike the sly subway shot of today , a phone tipped ever so slightly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Mandel ’ s were photos that announced themselves as photos .
He used a camera on a tripod with a self-timer that buzzed audibly for ten seconds , alerting the subject that an event was taking place .

Curiosity is the animating force of “Myself.” As in the zippy photos of Jacques Henri Lartigue—whom Mandel cites as an influence on the project—craft or technique is less important than energy and immediacy. And you get the sense that most of these strangers are happy to be photographed with Mandel, happy to be suddenly invited into the picture: in one, a wedding party angles themselves toward the camera as Mandel grins, cross-legged, at their feet. Maybe their pleasure had to do with the relative novelty, in 1971, of being asked to take a photo with a stranger, in public. There was still a sense of occasion: film was a set of limited exposures, each one valuable, requiring an outlay of time and money. We are so inured, now, to both the throwaway nature of a photograph—we can take an endless number—and the ubiquity of cameras. We know how easily public life is documented and have come almost to expect the constant possibility of being recorded. Unlike the sly subway shot of today, a phone tipped ever so slightly in the direction of the unsuspecting subject, Mandel’s were photos that announced themselves as photos. He used a camera on a tripod with a self-timer that buzzed audibly for ten seconds, alerting the subject that an event was taking place.