2. Adventures at Camp Covid

Here I am, hit me like a quarantine

Catch up on the rest of the story and read the tales of 'Camp COVID' in order: 1. Alive and Well at Camp Covid 2. Adventures at Camp Covid 3. Life and Times at Camp Covid 4. Enlightened at Camp Covid 5. Leaving Camp Covid 6. Camp Covid Epilogue 7. Return to Camp Covid NEWS: Calgary Herald, Global News, CBC News

I’m halfway through this part of quarantine. I say ‘this part’ because the first part was more isolation-ee with a hint of quarantine, whereas this part is 100% quarantine and I’ve got five days of it left.

The first thing that needs to be said is that I am still symptom-free, and except for a rather bizarre and painful case of gout that has decided to visit every single joint in my left foot, I am in good health.

Gout is that obnoxious in-law who shows up at the worst time and, with seemingly good intentions, tries to remove your toes and feet and tibia by pushing and packing millions of shards of glass between your joints and then grinding them apart. If you thought ‘noogies’ were the worst thing your uncle ever did, I’ve got news for you.

“Oh, hey Mikey!” Gout says lumbering through the front door uninvited and dragging a duffle bag full of broken glass.

I tell Gout that I’ve got an appointment and today’s not a good day for a visit but my keys are at the front door, and as I try to slip past, Gout wraps his hot, meaty, arm around my shoulders and in what can best be described as a low-rent Jersey Mob Boss accent says, “Mikey, hey! Oh! Where ya goin’? Take a break, have a seat, I got somethin’ fo’ ya.”

So the last five days have been fun. My only company this week has been Uncle Gout, and Brad the Bastard Lamp of Calgary.

Speaking of which, the Distress Centre called again yesterday to check-in and see how I was doing, perhaps because they expected a call from me to report in on what Brad was up to.

“How are we feeling?” the soft-spoken, kindly voice asks.

“I’m coming to terms with the fact that Brad might just be an allegory for the plight of humans trying to reconcile their insignificance in the universe.” I say matter-of-factly.

“Brad?” she asks soothingly.

“Yeah, BRAD. The desk lamp. He doesn't work, just sits there judging me” I explain. “It’s funny because of all the lamps in this room — and there is a ridiculous number of them — BRAD is the only one that I actually need to cast light, and he just won’t.” I shift the phone to my other ear, “That’s weird, right? All the other lamps work. Just not BRAD. Maybe it’s something I said …”

“Sir,” she says carefully, “what room are you in?”

Of course that isn’t exactly how the conversation went, but you get the gist. We had a nice talk and I explained that everything here is going as well as you could expect — I’m getting used to set meal times, I’m finding ways to exercise, I brought my own tea, I have books, and work, and things to keep me occupied. It’s nice. Not that much different than when I travel and work, and to be honest the only difference is that I can’t leave this room.

Room with a view

My room is on the 7th Floor of the Ramada Downtown Calgary. I face the alley between 7th and 8th Avenue. If I press my face against the glass I can see 6th Street and at the right time of day, for about 26 minutes, I can see it dappled with sunlight, otherwise I’m just lurking in the shadows of the high-rises downtown. There are many fascinating people and transactions that take place in back alleys, and here I thought that was a worn-out cliche.

As I mentioned in my last article, meals are very structured affairs. They happen within a 15-minute window of 7AM, 12PM, and 6PM. Job numero uno when I got here was to learn the capto… er hotel staff’s schedules. I’ve been trying to communicate with them, you know, show them that I’m human (I learned that in an episode of CASTLE). I’ve written them humorous and heart-felt notes on my daily meal orders to no avail; unless the stale corn and lack of tacos in today’s taco salad was a response to the silly drawing of a koala I made on last nights form?

Whenever the meals are delivered I can hear them place the tray down, knock on the door, and say “ROOM SERVICE” in a happy, melodic voice. “Thank you!” I yell, showing them I too am human; one of them. Still nothing. I’ll keep trying.

The food is not bad for the most part, and the menu keeps every meal interesting with the exception of breakfast. Breakfast is essentially a box of sugar. I’m using its contents to mark the number of days I’ve been 'in the joint'. If we were allowed any human contact at all I could trade muffins, fruit cups, and wet naps for protection, or use it to lord over the other ‘detainees’, and become the Shot Caller at the Ramada Hotel, the Ramada Don, if you will.

A boy and his pancreas

Alas, this is not to be. Instead I have a fridge slowly being filled with syrup-soaked mandarin orange slices, packaged-and-processed blueberry muffins, coffee creamers, and ‘moist towelettes’. If they do forget about me in here I should be good for a couple of days before I get diabetes — or more likely, my pancreas will separate from my body and become sentient. It could go either way at this point.

I’ve been giving a lot of thought to animals in the zoo. The obvious reason of course is that I’m caged and unable to venture out into my natural habitat — which is Kensington. I've learned, much like every other animal found in a zoo, that this is 'for our own good'.

It’s given me pause to consider what animals get fed — do they ‘like’ what they get? Is it ‘good’ for them? How do they request something new to eat? Like, if a tiger gets bored of eating Ibex everyday what do they do? Disembowel a zoo keeper probably, use their claw to poke around the innards until they find something they like, stab it with a claw and show it to the other zoo keepers? “Oh shit, Simba wants broccoli.”

I haven’t gone to those lengths yet. Instead I’ve written pleasant notes simply asking for some fresh fruit and vegetables. Like, really nice notes. Pleading in some cases. Under ‘Dietary Restrictions’ I’ve gone so far to say, “Anything but those muffins and fruit cups. How about an apple?”. My cries fall on deaf ears, and everyday it’s the same stuff. My pancreas just informed me his name will be Daryl.

In the menu it says ‘home cut chips’ for most meals. Don’t fall for it. These are Ruffles. And guess who loves Ruffles? Uncle Gout. “Hey yo, Mikey! Looks like you got some Ruffles there,” he says grabbing a fistful of Ruffles in one hand, glass-chunks in the other. “C’mere you!”

Human seeking connection

There's a wall of windows that look into other cages across the alley. I didn’t realize just how weird working in offices was until I spent some time downtown. The human zoo. We’re all on display I suppose, at least now I have a better understanding why some animals just sit with their butts against the glass, or fling poop, or why Janet in Accounting lost her shit after Gerald reheated his salmon in the microwave for the second time that week. Anything to break the monotony.

I’ve tried to engage my neighbours in the offices across Crackhead Alley by doing the ‘escalator’ and ‘elevator’ routine at my window. You know the one where you look like you’re travelling up and down an escalator? They pretend they can’t see me doing it but I know I’m making a connection. Later today I’m going to break out the ‘canoe’ and see if that gets a response — I’ve got it all planned out, complete with a ‘portage’, ‘rapids’, and ending in an epic ‘waterfall’ grand finale. If it goes as well as I imagine I’ve got the ‘kayak' with ‘eskimo roll’ and ‘pod of whales’ all ready to go.

Brad doesn’t look impressed with me. “You got something to say, Brad?!? I’m not broken! You’re broken!!”

Five more days until I’m released back into Kensington.