Lessons From the Cheese Sneeze

Several hours ago, I found myself standing next to a woman on a street corner. She sneezed. Not, by the way, into her elbow, which is now the favored approach. At least that’s what the coronavirus precaution sheets hanging in the drugstore—as well as the subway station announcements—advise. In this instance, a strong south wind blew, taking—hopefully—the sneeze discharge downwind from me.

In this unique snapshot in time—this surreal moment—one can’t help but see a sneeze as something more than a sneeze. I once had a friend who, every time he sneezed, left a fragrant calling card—a cheese-like odor wafting though the ether. Looking back on it, his sneezes were simultaneously gross and proof that their airborne residue can carry a fair distance. Today, my old friend would be at risk of being attacked in a subway car—with the emergency brake pulled—because his sneeze’s comet-like trail was so far-reaching.

With all the closures in New York City—not the subways as of now—and surrounding areas, the last few days have been increasingly fantastic. My paternal grandmother saw the Spanish flu kill her only sister and a young niece—and hundred of others in the town and millions the world over—but that was 1918 and this is 2020. I’d just assume, though, trust the health experts than some of the ignorant airbags on cable television and talk radio.

Still, life goes on. I was in a crowded space this morning—a specialty market—with longer lines and bigger wagon-loads than I had ever witnessed there. Perhaps it’s going a little overboard to buy seven cartons of eggs, twelve jars of Ragu tomato sauce, and twenty-four rolls of toilet paper. Save some toilet paper for the rest of us! I actually looked into the place beforehand and decided that it wasn’t overly crowded compared to the nearby supermarket. It turned out that almost everyone was on line and I was, by then, trapped therein with my full basket. There was no turning back.

I suspect shopping in cramped grocery stores with lengthy lines might be an even greater risk than attending a St. Patrick’s Day parade in the great outdoors or taking a subway ride. I don’t know. In a local diner yesterday, the veteran short-order cook came out from behind his stove and griddle to shake my hand. This was before he prepared my breakfast and I was not carrying any hand sanitizer. Later, I noticed a bottle of the stuff on the diner’s countertop when three women came in and rubbed enough of it on their hands to sanitize a commercial garbage dumpster. Of course, I could have gone into the bathroom and washed my hands for twenty seconds. But I’d been in there before and thought better of it.

Unfortunately, in this Strange New World that we call home—with the likes of Twitter and Facebook—the worst of people is too often revealed. Who would have guessed that so many of the folks from the old neighborhood were biologists, epidemiologists, and virologists! They must teach those subjects in the School of Hard Knocks. And while I know that the Earth and virtually everything in our solar system revolve around the sun, what’s with this Orange Man thing? Does even a worldwide pandemic revolve around him? Granted, he’s orange like the sun, but there the similarities end.

If nothing else, something like this—that we’ve never before experienced or imagined—brings us all closer together, even while we avoid one another. The wayward sneeze knows no race, ethnicity, or gender. Only a short time ago, a black man and white man—me—agreed that we are going to wash our hands a lot more and more thoroughly, too, and be ever-vigilant of where we are and who around us is coughing, wheezing, and sneezing. After all: We’re all in this together. Aren’t we?

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)