Tuesday, May 12, 2020

I ride the southeast elevator up to my office. I don’t have a good internal compass. I only know it’s southeast because we face in that direction when we pray toward Jerusalem. When the doors open, I see a wooden path leading from the elevator to an office far away on our floor. I walk on the boards as far as the restroom. Each plank is slightly warped, with the center raised. Each step makes three sounds, not two. My heel hits the wood with a hollow pop. The wood clicks against the tiles when it flattens under my weight. The ball of my foot taps the board more softly, with a higher pitch. When I head out for the night, I see that the elevator has also been lined with wood. Riding down alone, I tap patterns on the walls. The boards with the open spaces around the elevator buttons sound richer than those fastened flat against the other walls. On my way home, two brightly colored trucks blast loud music as they roll past me down the road. Today is a minor holiday, though gatherings and the traditional bonfires have been banned. After the second truck goes by, I hear something like a bullroarer, punctuated by an even tick. I look to my left. The athletic woman is in her yard, jumping rope so rapidly that the rope whirs through the air. Teenagers zoom past on scooters. Each has a mask with a different colorful pattern. What once were emblems of fear have now become fashion.