The Pandemic Nuclear Blast
How the global crisis harkens back to the Cuban Missile Crisis
October 16 to November 20, 1962. The world was literally at a tipping point. Fidel Castro had allowed/made a deal with Khrushchev to allow the Soviets to plant nuclear missiles, aimed at America, right on Cuban soil. Which escalated into an international crisis when American deployed missiles in Italy and Turkey aimed at the Soviets. For Russia, it was a simple quid pro quo. A Queen’s Gambit chess move. Our black and white television sets were a-poppin’ constantly with updates, as President Kennedy tried to reassure us that he would not stand down to any imminent closing in of communism on the homeland soil of world freedom. It was a big deal and it kept us on our literal seats for not just the one month and four days. The crisis had a holdover effect embodied in our daily habits and how we thought of the world. Imagine waking up every day and not being able to help the thought of instant nuclear inhalation burn through your head. Because that was it was. That was the fear. A fear backed up by science, politicians and experts in nuclear technology. We got through it; we survived, and it wasn’t more or less gone until the dreaded Reagan invoked a political method dating back to World War I: Détente.
In some significant ways, the global pandemic (I know; a bit redundant) is much like constant impending nuclear death. Not the least was that you just never knew if today would be your last, but as important, can you trust your neighbor. Back then it was: Is your best friend a Soviet spy. Today it’s are the people you come in contact with playing it safe. Every morning from first grade, we had a fire drill in class. Followed by an earthquake drill. And for our pièce de résistance, the nuclear blast drill. All were silly and pointless. Ducking and covering under your little wooden desk and covering your head with your hands would do fuck all to save your skin being burned off your body instantaneously. But it gave us comfort. Somehow. Meanwhile, the constant fear of instant death made an entire generation rethink not only enhancing their chances of dying by going to Viet Nam, it opened up a walnut hard casing of thoughts of freedom and living life to its fullest. Fear of death always enhances true life values, but also inevitably foments creative desire. Look at the Renaissance. Were it not for the Black Death, would we have had such great Ozzie Osborne albums?
If there’s a chance we’re all gonna die anyway, don’t we want to be able to choose who kills us?
In the last 9 months, I’ve hardly seen anyone. I get in my car to get provisions and to just get the fuck outta my tiny apartment. Occasionally, I’ll hang out with friends. I always arrive wearing a mask and they usually wear one too. But, if I’m coming over for dinner, we’re gonna take off our masks and eat. And talk. Sure; we’ll sit 6 feet away, but are we really playing it safe…enough? There is a weird notion that because we know one another, because we’re friends, we’re safe together. But, are we? The Coronavirus doesn’t exactly go around saying: “Oh, do you two know each other?” It doesn’t care because it doesn’t have feelings. (As far as we know. I don’t want to offend it.) When AIDS was the big fear, there was common sense notion that you could catch it from toilet seats. Can you imagine the daily fear that sitting down to take a poo could literally scare the crap outta ya?
Delusion and courage have always kept me going. Even in my downest moments. When I wanted to end my life ten years ago. Even then, I knew that I had more courage than I realized. Courage to live, not courage to die. But, I also knew that “I was meant for greater things”. This was drilled into me by both my parents since I could remember. They both pulled themselves up by the bootstraps from abject Depression poverty through their dreams. Delusions are dreams that never come true.
As a full time writer these days, by way of occupational hazardry, I cannot help but think when my life sucks, all it means is I’m still in the second act crisis. That if I keep going, all will be good again. I’ll literally write my way out of it. Hope. It’s a self-created delusion. But, so is despair. December 1999, the entire world was scared to death of Y2K. That because of a flaw in the 0’s and 1’s of the computer system, the 1 turning over into a 2 was not foreseen, and therefore everything would crash, including the global economy and (yes again) nuclear missiles would get confused and launch themselves.
I’m proud of myself for staying self-isolated. For wearing a mask. For washing my hands and using hand sanitizer and for social distancing. But, will it be enough. Just now, I went to 7Eleven to get some milk and there was this guy who decided to stand just behind me, his hand on the refrigerator door where I was getting milk. I shouted at him to get the fuck back. He wouldn’t move. I moved back and said: “Get what you want” and he did, but not without giving me one last nasty look as he was going out the door. As if I was the crazy one. It wasn’t worth taking the argument any further. But it does give me pause (hand gesture of doggy paws) that maybe it’s worth the delivery fee next time. That the person who will kill me won’t be a friend. And, after all, if there’s a chance we’re all gonna die anyway, don’t we want to be able to choose who kills us?
