Before and After

Jeremy Trager

photos by Jeremy Trager

Seven months before the lockdown, I stuffed the objects of my life into a small U-Haul and drove from Chicago to Memphis, where Hurricane Barry stalled me. A couple days later, I rolled into New Orleans, expecting my new residence to be submerged in water. It was dry.

Six months before the lockdown, I felt isolated, homesick, anxious, depressed, angry. I wandered bustling streets that felt empty. I didn’t recognize faces. I didn’t recognize the air. I didn’t recognize myself.

Five months before the lockdown, I sat in classrooms with people half my age. My brain woke up after a long slumber; it was rapidly fed. My head felt like an old plot of dirt drowning in rain, turning to mud, and sprouting flowers. The flowers were exotic, startling, perennial.  

Four months before the lockdown, I worked in a busy restaurant. I waited on throngs of sloshed tourists, impatient Uptown ladies, sophisticated travelers from around the world, regulars from the neighborhood, and a few celebrities. I learned a lot about liquor, wine, and southern cuisine. I took home rolls of cash on the weekends and was thankful that I had people to talk to and serve with a smile. But sometimes the stress was so intense that I couldn’t breathe. Sometimes I’d just stare at the wall and wonder if I was having a stroke.  

Three months before the lockdown, I sat in ancient bars, sipped stiff cocktails, and talked with bartenders. Slowly, I became friends with other locals. But I also learned that in New Orleans, it’s easy to make new friends and never see them again[SS1] .  

Two months before the lockdown, my parents came to New Orleans for the first time. I found great joy in being their tour guide. I watched my first Carnival parade with them. A collection of costumed angels marched down the street, heralding the heroism of Joan of Arc. Afterward, crowds flocked, migrated, crammed into bars and balconies. A ritual had begun.  

A month before the lockdown, I caught a bad cold. It started with a sore throat, then worked its way down into my chest. I had a dry cough for over a month. Everyone at work had the same ailment. We joked it might be “the corona.” But what could we do about it? Waiters and bartenders don’t get time off for being sick. I chugged cough syrup before every shift and hoped I wouldn’t cough on my guests. People were starting to treat coughs like cooties.

A month after the lockdown, I waited for my unemployment to process. I went to the restaurant to gather bags of produce being given away to laid off employees. I applied for food stamps. I hoped to get back to work by the end of summer. Surely everything would go back to normal by then. I canceled my trip to Chicago that I’d been looking forward to for months. My gut ached over that. I started to feel homesick and isolated again.

Two months after the lockdown, I fell into a rhythm. I devoured books like sugar, reading 2-3 hours a day. I wrote feverishly. I took up French. I learned cocktailing. I took long walks when the weather was nice – and it usually was. Days of pure sun, warm breeze. When I arrived in New Orleans, the busy streets made me feel empty. Now the empty streets filled me with wonder.

Three months after the lockdown, I followed the weekly data showing infection and death rates in New Orleans and Chicago. The cities’ respective numbers seemed to flip-flop like kids on a seesaw. New Orleans was a ghost town without tourists; Chicago remained an overstuffed metropolis. My friends there were stuck, unable to drift. If I hadn’t moved, my pandemic would have unfolded in a large complex with forty other tenants sharing a laundry room, and with no outdoor space of my own. In New Orleans, I had a house to myself, stunning weather, and open air.

Four months after the lockdown, I stepped into the neglected courtyard behind my house. There, I discovered a secret world. I talked to exotic, subtropical plants that bloom in different cycles and sometimes smell like moist mushrooms or sharp perfume. I collected figs and planted patchouli and mint. I stood in my underwear and let the wasps buzz around me. The sun baked me slow like a sweet potato. The plants had been lonely for so long. Now they’d have a caretaker – someone who’d sing softly and give them drink.

Five months after the lockdown, I formed a pod with some classmates. We took on the risk of being together. We trusted one another. We got to know one another. We shared our writing, shared our pasts, shared cocktails. We took walks and puzzled over the future. Five months into the pandemic, I felt steady.

Six months after the lockdown, I stood in the dark night as Hurricane Zeta ran through my city like a train. When the eye of the storm passed over my head, all was quiet. I felt helpless and accepting at the same time. There are things we can’t control. I lost my power. I used a little lamp to guide me through the night. I threw all my food away. After five days, the electricity was restored. I had lost something, but there was opportunity in that loss. I took apart my fridge and freezer and scrubbed everything clean. And then I started fresh.

Jeremy Trager is an MFA candidate at the Creative Writing Workshop of the University of New Orleans, with a specialization in playwriting. His plays have been read at the UNO Playwrights Festival and Bailiwick Chicago. You can see more of his photography at www.instagram.com/nightmarigny.