The Final Curtain
“He’s gone,” I said to myself last night, looking yonder across the back lane. Then taking a sip of red wine, I wiped a single tear from my eye, and closed the curtains.
Returning to my couch, I reached for the remote and clicked on Rodger’s & Hammerstein’s “The Sound of Music.” Losing myself on an Austrian hillside, I felt a brief reprieve from sadness, until the Von Trapp children started singing their song.
“So long,” I sang along, sobbing.
“Farewell,” I choked on my next gulp of wine.
“Auf wiedershen,” I thought about my attractive German friend Felix. Guten Tag Felix.
“Goodnight,” I wailed.
Pandemic Pete has moved.
Yesterday morning, I could not help but notice a flurry of activity in his apartment as I waited for the coffee maker to beep. At first, I thought he was celebrating American Thanksgiving because it was really a family affair. In the kitchen, his mom puttered while his sibling’s brought life to a typically quiet living room.
“I have never met the family before,” I poured a cup of dark roast and started a conversation with myself. “This is truly turning out to be quite a nice day.”
Then, at approximately 11:03am everything changed.
At first, I didn’t think much of it when the moving truck arrived. With rent prices soaring and the average cost of wine in a restaurant nearing $10,000 a glass, the end of the month is always a busy time in downtown Vancouver.
“It was then, I reasoned I should stick to nursing wine; however, even that still remains a challenge.”
“Wait, where are they taking his plants?” I felt my mood shift and blood pressure rise.
If I can tell you one thing about Pandemic Pete I know for certain, he is an excellent gardener. His blinds are always open because his entire apartment is filled with beautiful plants. For the last three years, I have watched him tend to them every Sunday afternoon with loving care.
He even inspired me to test out my own green thumb! As you know, ever since 2014, I have been hesitant about plant caretaking. That was the year, of course, I was so busy managing The Meatball Hut, I failed to notice the plant I had been watering was fake. It was then, I reasoned I should stick to nursing wine; however, even that still remains a challenge.
Well, wouldn’t you know it, at the time of this writing I have half-a-dozen plant friends currently in residence. The mood has been a bit tense, as of late, as two of them are on life support. I may or may not have, unknowingly, drowned them. Last month, when Mama Fox was in town for the weekend, she was none too happy with me. At 38-years-old, I received a scolding about how plants are not nearly as thirsty as me.
As I watched his apartment empty, I could not bear to look any longer. At sunset, he shut the blinds for the first, and last time.
It is true, we first laid eyes on each other in March 2020 cheering for the front-line workers. During the tumultuous lockdowns that followed, his steadfast routine served as anchor for me. While most days, I woke up on the living room floor, he sat working from his kitchen table. And while yes, it is true, as restrictions eased, my attention turned towards apartments elsewhere.
That said, I will never forget the time we never spent together.
Goodbye Pete, or whatever your name actually is.
