It’s week five of the lockdown. It’s time to turn to this story by Erik Lacitis, a Seattle Times staff reporter. The title: “Fear and apprehension in Pacific County over coronavirus: ‘If you live in Seattle, stay in Seattle.’”
What the article contains is stated in that headline. The people of this rural section of Washington State, which is one of “two Washington counties [that have] “0 confirmed cases, 0 deaths,” want the people from the big and plagued city to stay away from them.
In a sense, this is their revenge. Many here vote red but depend on blue tourism to put food on their tables and a roof over their heads. Their fuck-you to city slickers, however, is complicated by the fact many who support Trump want to open the economy. Nothing but nonsense can come out of the rural predicament.
But beyond the politics, there has always been with rural folk a deep distrust of strangers. This feeling has inspired many horror films. You know the picture. It’s been seen a million times. A man comes to town. People seem friendly enough. Coffee is poured into his cup at the dinner. But something strange (even satanic) is caught in the server’s eyes. The impression is dismissed. When the man finally realizes that the town has some ritual that demands a sacrifice, it’s too late. The end. That is rural cinema.
The urban feeling inspires another kind of movie: that of the aftermath. Again, you have watched this story so many times, you can describe it in your sleep: A woman prepares to leave her home. But her world is not the same as that of her viewers. She cannot go grocery shopping without being completely silent and wearing things that keep the noises of her body down. And it’s a hard life. So much to remember. Soft shoes. Clothes that don’t crinkle. Communication with hand signs. This is the kind life we have today in the city of Seattle.
Before leaving home: the face mask, the gloves, the disinfectant, the disinfected cellphone, headphones, and recharger. Part of 2020 is apocalyptic; another part is in the aftermath.
