Shelter in Place #5: “Inescapable” and “Aftermath of March 12th, 2020”
Inescapable
BY DEENA MAINALI ’22
Instead of a stuffed monkey, I was holding a box of orange chicken. Besides that, I felt like I was six years old again, lost but not alarmed, secure in the knowledge that I would be found. Back then, the airport terminal had been as busy and loud as the mall was now, as squealing toddlers, gaggles of teenagers, and kiosk vendors bustled around, trying to make the most of their economy-class experience. Now, despite the stream of people, the air conditioning blasting out of the stores I walked by made me shiver, and I pressed the takeout container close to my stomach, wishing I had worn a thicker blouse.
The aisle of Forever 21s and salons gave way to an open atrium with a domed roof, with large glass doors leading to the parking lot. My friends would eventually find me on their way to the car, if they did not see me from the second floor. I opened the orange chicken. The chicken had started to congeal as it cooled, and I realized I had forgotten chopsticks. I remembered seeing a restaurant near the entrance. Maybe they’d have some plastic utensils. I turned around and paused.
Five people were standing in front of me in a V-formation, hands at their side, staring blankly past me. I looked back over my shoulder. Nobody had stopped or seemed to notice. I moved towards the person closest to me, a terse-looking businesswoman, and muttered a greeting. No response. The lady was flanked by a chubby man in a crop top and a girl in a school uniform. Behind them, a leather-clad person with pink hair stood next to a skinny wisp of a guy who was mostly sweatshirt. They were dressed too disparately to be part of a flash mob or dance crew, and there were no signs nearby indicating that this was a performance or installation. I realized that none of them had blinked this whole time. Keeping my eye on the pink-haired figure, I cautiously made my way to the man in the sweatshirt and waved my hand in front of his face. Nothing.
I became aware of how cold I was again, like I had swallowed something frozen. Their faces were familiar. I could have sworn I’d seen all five of them in passing at the university, or maybe in a textbook or on the news. I reached into my pocket for my phone. I knew it was dead, but I still fumbled for it, welcoming any distraction from the bizarreness of the situation. As I grabbed the phone, my chicken spilled onto the tile.
I picked up the pieces by hand and threw them away in a nearby trashcan. A yellow mop cart that had been there since I had first walked into the mall caught my eye. I felt a sense of relief wash over me that I had something to do, which was immediately replaced with frustration. They were just standing there; it was irrational to feel this tense. As I mopped up the sauce, I looked at the people. I was the only still thing besides them. They were all positioned in the same direction, and I finally figured out what had unsettled me: they were waiting. The mop started to shake, and I tried to steady myself, pushing the cart towards the guy in the sweatshirt by accident. He didn’t move away, and the cart bumped into him. A wave of desperation came over me. I grabbed the mop water and splashed it onto his face.
Slowly, his pupils met mine. A knowing look pulled up the corner of his mouth into a smile, and then he was looking forwards again, all of them, waiting. I ran out of the doors, and as my foot hit the sidewalk, I heard screaming behind me.
My heart sank into my throat, its momentum making me fall upwards and my eyelids snap open. My blanket lay mangled towards the side of the bed facing my dorm room’s window. The phone buzzed, and without looking at the notification, I knew it was more news about the virus.
Shelter in Place is a new series featuring student artists’ and writers’ responses to the COVID-19 pandemic.
