Coronavirus: Guns and Tomatoes

“I think I want a gun,” Sergey yawned.

I tensed. “Don’t say that. You know I hate guns.”

“Everything is going to shit.”

“I’m trying to sleep.”

I turned on my side and worried about my husband’s reactions to the Coronavirus. Once it hit the Seattle area, he reacted by buying big bags of rice, stocking up on water purification tablets, and now this, the desire for the gun. I tried to understand the hoarding impulse first. I thought I knew something about this, having lived in Tbilisi in the Republic of Georgia, just three years after the Russian invasion.

* * *

The apartment building I shared with my host family was built like a fortress: a Brutalist Lego of dark concrete. The stairs to the fourth floor were dark and musty. The light bulb flickered, threatening to burn out.

But as I entered the two bedroom apartment I shared with the five Gabunias, I was greeted with a surprise. There were fresh tomatoes everywhere, covering the counters, the sink, and the kitchen table. Even the bathtub was full to the brim.

“What is all this?” I asked my Bebia, my host grandmother.

She only laughed and wielded a knife to continue her slaughter of the jewel-hued fruits.

My grandmother spoke no English and my Georgian was limited to telling her that I loved her and that the food she made for me was delicious. I had to wait until Vaso, my host father came home.

I was stirring two pots of stewing tomatoes when he arrived. He picked up a fresh tomato and munched as he considered my question. “Every fall we put tomatoes in jars.”

“Why do you need so many?” I asked.

“So that we have them all the year.”

“Can’t you just buy them from the store?”

“It is possible, yes,” Vaso frowned, his white mustache drooped under his thin cheeks. “But not more than three years ago we hid in caves to escape the Russians. We always need to plan for failure. This,” he pointed at the refrigerator, “may not work tomorrow, who knows? Money may be worthless tomorrow. It is always best to plan for the worst.”

* * *

Lauren was born in 1985 in America. As a white girl from the suburbs, she took for granted that she could tattletale to the police any problem and they could fix it. She loved her pet guinea pigs; she thought she might be a veterinarian some day. Or a poet. She planned on going to college. Her parents put money in the bank for her. The money was still there over a decade later. Her favorite ice cream was cinnamon fireball.

Sergey was born in 1984 in Russia. The Soviet Union collapsed in 1991. His single mother struggled to keep him and his sister clothed and fed in a place where inflation meant the money that could buy bread one day would be better used as toilet paper the next. Cops were powerless at best and thugs at worst. Boys at his school said they wanted to be contract killers when they grew up. Sergey worried about his grades: if he didn’t get accepted into college he would be required to join the army for two years. His favorite flavor of ice cream was vanilla. Capitalism brought other flavors to stores, but they were too expensive.

* * *

It is my second period chemistry class. I am starting a demo for my students. There is a lot of open-mouthed coughing. I try to shake off Sergey’s paranoia. I try to focus.

To an Erlenmeyer flask I add a handful of powdered zinc. Then I pour in fifty milliliters of hydrochloric acid. The reaction bubbles violently. I add a balloon to the top of the flask to capture the escaping hydrogen gas.

The gurgling noise makes students put down their phones and pay attention. I smile and look up at them: mostly black and brown faces, mostly lower class. Rich kids, mostly white, are put into honors classes at my school. Segregation by tracking.

The acid smell is strong. Students are coughing, but it isn’t due to the smell. Everybody seems sick lately. Coronavirus? Worry seems useless. There is no vaccine and we are all going to get it eventually.

Hydrogen gas inflates the balloon. It is almost full. The bright pink plastic is cheap and can’t withstand much pressure. How many families can afford this sickness? How many of my student’s parents might lose their jobs if they take too many days off? How many might go bankrupt from not having health insurance?

I struggle to tie the balloon into a knot. I put it on a tall stand so that everyone can see. I put the stand in the sink in case things go wrong. I tell my students to back away.

Russians and Georgians lived through times of chaos. But they had public housing, public health care, job security, and a culture of doomsday planning.

My arm shakes as I hold the meterstick with the lit splint at the end. I hate loud noises. I clench my jaw. I will myself not to scream.

The hydrogen explodes. My students cheer. They are happy, for now.

An excerpt from this piece appears in Crosscut as “Notes from the pandemic: Washington writers respond to coronavirus” https://crosscut.com/2020/03/notes-pandemic-washington-writers-respond-coronavirus