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This website contains the entire novel—linked and illustrated—along with information on influenza and bird flu, an art gallery & opportunities to buy personal protection gear and cultural merchandise (including books, movies, and music cited by American Fever's blogger).
 

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Saturday
Aug222009

Day 49-50: Flu ‘Defeated,’ Party On!

Last night the streets were full. For once the East Village celebrated a speech by a president. They heard that “strong American hearts and clean hands” had licked H5N1.

I loved the warning that the second wave has historically been far worse in pandemics. I doubt it will be necessary to call in the Army, but I’m grateful and impressed that the nation’s all-clear was qualified.

I’D TAKE THE PLEASURE CHEST OVER THE FLU FEST

No one paid heed to the disclaimers. My neighbors were too busy partying, making out—all genders, styles, ages. It was as if the president had shown up on a flatbed in a toga, flashing flesh, popping corks. But our splashy Mermaid Parade doesn’t happen till June, in Coney Island.

I was impelled to go downstairs and join the throng. Of course I kept my gear on. Some of the revelers had undoubtedly just caught H5N1 and were incubating it, unaware. Probably their cases will be mild.

I’m torn about exposing myself now that the virus has lost virulence. I wonder if catching it might confer immunity on me later, in Wave Two. No one knows. Some are holding flu parties to spread “harmless” microbes. But any acquired immunity might fade fast.

To come back and kill 10% of humanity—a not impossible prospect—the RNA would keep changing as H5N1 explores our world. Then our bodies might not recognize it as that bug we celebrated surviving three months earlier. We might catch it again.

I felt lonely without Nina and silly wandering around in goggles like the Ghost of Plagues Past, so I headed into a bar famed for its happy hour. I was too late for discounts, but no one was leaving. The bartender couldn’t hear me over Ozzy, so I had to lift my mask.

It was my first naked exposure in a public space in more than eight weeks. It was intoxicating to breathe stale suds. The bar smelled like people—not so bad, really.

I fixed the mask back on and perched on a stool.

Someone tapped my shoulder, a guy in a dark sports jacket. He asked me to join his friends at a table. I started to decline, but why not?

There were three guys and a girl, all really buzzed. They each shook my glove and we shared a round of tequila and beer at their expense. I lifted my mask for sips. They ignored me till they ordered another round and then the one who’d fetched me reached woozily for my goggles.

I leaned back and shook my head and checked them out more carefully. Were they trying to pick me up or pick a fight with me? Both? New Yorkers are probably weirder than ever now.

Tinker Tailor’ Tequila Table

The girl was younger than the men, with long blonde hair, green eyes, and a pudgy expression I found intriguing because she looked dumb enough to fool people. There was something alluring. I wondered if this was her show. Had she made them summon me?

The man who thought he was the ringleader was a young corporate lawyer—short hair, high school athlete, probably a pothead then and now. He was flanked by a round-faced guy in glasses, who turned out to be a freshly minted anesthesiologist on a fellowship at a nearby hospital, and by a darker man with a mustache and elegant hat, a Wall Streeter.

They weren’t dangerous but they wanted to mock me. Maybe I embodied the deprivations they’d suffered. I wasn’t even quitting. I was still dressed to die.

The doctor was smug. He didn’t know much about bird flu and thought the system had performed well. He supported the others without adding anything, like a hack rent-a-witness in a courtroom. Perhaps he was exhausted from working a lot harder than his friends. Or maybe he’d lost his mental edge on a long break because there was so little surgery to support.

The lawyer asked if my gear made me feel powerful. Did I feel invisible to viruses and germs, shielded by a microbial firewall that scrambled my biological IP address? A fair question, imaginatively phrased. He’d be good before a jury, if that’s what he does.

I replied in muffled voice that I felt like a geek then and there, but that I’d felt super-secure weeks ago. There were times when I strode down a sidewalk full of frightened, confused people, feeling invulnerable. Far from invisible, though—I carried cards to give people who asked about my protective gear.

I ordered a round.

The Wall Streeter was from London, the son of Brahmins—arguably an Indian Chief to complement the Doctor and Lawyer. A human rope-jumping rhyme had sprung up to toast my first night out in months. I thought that was pretty cool. We quickly agreed that the Beggar Man would be greeting newcomers out on the sidewalk as the Thief lifted wallets at the bar.

I started to take out my cell phone to photograph them as they toasted me. It was jolly in a barbed way.

So was I the Rich Man from selling all those masks? I answered that I would be the Poor Man until Wave Two, and then I’d be in pretty good shape.

Blame the Humble Flu Messenger

When I turned to the girl to ask her if she planned to jump rope for us, she splashed her tequila in my face. “You want this to come back,” she said, adding words I can’t post, or my site will be banned as unsuitable.

One by one, they tossed their drinks at me, shots I’d painstakingly paid for. (It’s hard to count money with gloves on.) The men didn’t speak as the girl blessed each salvo with a shiny-eyed nod.

Sticky booze coated my goggles. I could hardly breathe through the soaked mask. My phone was wet. I considered flipping their table over, but what was the point? I wasn’t even drunk.

I pulled the mask aside and predicted they’d all turn black and blue from lack of oxygen. Shuddering with wrath, I cursed them. I described each of them leaking blood from every hole and I asked them to remember me when their genes pull the plug on their vital organs.

Raggedly, they lofted their empty shot glasses and gave me the finger.

I smashed a plate when I got home. That felt swell, but I resisted the impulse to keep going, to smash whatever ‘Nina’ had left intact.

Strange that they attacked me after I said I didn’t have much money. What was that? Gene Clark had it right when he sang about people spreading infection through pain in Echoes.

Sunday
Aug232009

Day 51: String Up Those Flu Profiteers!

Antiflu partisans are in disarray everywhere. Stocks that rose on H5N1 have imploded. Chicken stocks are soaring. Financial newscasters mock profiteers who blew their exits. People with no sense of history chant ‘Y2K, Y2K,’ cynicism bubbling up like the contents of a broken toilet.

A BULL MARKET IN CHICKEN STOCKS

The LES DIY has called off their activities. I looked in vain for their table.

I missed the volunteers at Ric’s Place, too. Between bird flu and Nina, I lost contact with a lot of people—friends, acquaintances, bands, artists, even job opportunities. I shared my home, my trust, my dreams with an angry mirage.

Fortunately, Ric is in very good spirits as he scours and paints his restaurant. I helped some and will attend his grand reopening in a few days. Ric’s getting great press for his humanitarian efforts. With luck, he’ll be out of debt by the time the second wave materializes.

I can’t wait to taste the truly excellent grub he will dish out!

I hope the LES DIYers are proud, happy, and resting. Can’t wait to see them again.

Sunday
Aug232009

Day 52: My Bloodthirsty Readers

I’m amazed at how many people wrote in to say I am lower than soot in a fireplace because I didn’t kill those yuppies. Fitch lost all respect for me. Sneeky looks away when I call him. Nina’s probably twitching in extrasensory disgust. Even some women say I should have tossed my glass in the girl’s face.

JIMMY STEWART KNEW HOW TO CHARM WOMEN THE HARD WAYI’m more the Jimmy Stewart type. Don’t forget who wins the lady in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.

I didn’t see much purpose in a fistfight. The president may feel safe from H5N1 in the White House, but I don’t fancy a night or two in jail. If the pandemic still flourishes anywhere in Manhattan, it would be in the Tombs, as we call the local hoosegow. It’s rumored that lots of prisoners caught the flu. The sorriest victims have to be those Mexicans they locked up in Arizona, then forgot to tend: two-thirds muerte.

 

Sunday
Aug232009

Day 53: A Personal Pandemic Postmortem 

I’m worried about Nina. She wears tension, needs to be coaxed out of it like a turtle from a shell that fits too tightly. The first few times I saw her get worked up, I reckoned she’d calm down after we settled things logically and lovingly. Forty-eight hours later, something else would rattle her. When she’s inclined to freak out, it’s like trying to stifle a geyser. And she hates to suffer alone.

Maybe I ran out of reassurance.

I think the prospect of fatherhood under those particular circumstances scared me numb. I was trying to be rational and responsible. I can get a little clinical in a crisis. I retreat to logic. It’s not the worst response, but it can seem cold.

Oh hell. What can you say when the woman you love would rather turn blue and die than spend another day with you? I hope she’s okay.

Monday
Aug242009

Day 54: Advice From Beyond

My mysterious emailer has come up with a cogent explanation of Nina’s behavior. She writes that Nina might have felt she caught the flu through some exposure I’d consider unacceptable. She could have been seeing someone who had it or hanging out somewhere that turned out to contain the virus.

She felt guilty. She wanted to cover it up, get rid of the illness, the symptoms, as soon as possible. She wanted to take control. So she raided my Relenza.

To spare me from her presumed viral particles, she decontaminated everything in my apartment and banned me from interacting with her—from sleeping, touching, even from entering my once and future bedroom. Sneeky could’ve caught it from her, of course, but she couldn’t think of—or manage—everything. Ultimately she evicted him, too.

Even her use of an N95 mask makes sense in that light. They protect others from the wearer. I thought she was trying to protect herself from me, which would require one of my masks. On the other hand, she seemed pretty sure I had given it to her after catching it from some vixen, so nothing really makes sense.

In any event, thank you for your thoughtful letter. (Please send the text of your appeal; I’ll post it if it seems suitably broad in scope, as opposed to a local notice.)