BY MICHAEL MUSTO | It’s usually a misbegotten idea to compare tragedies, but having been through other huge crises before the COVID pandemic, I find it inevitable. And I can’t shake the memory of how, after 9/11, New York became a traumatized but somehow much warmer place than before. In the wake of the horror of the attack, NYC residents lowered their walls and reached out to each other for comfort, strangers actually stopping to talk to each other on the street in a way that was previously unheard-of. We were all in a daze—but with our facades down, we were willing to slow our breathless racing around routine for a second and connect with each other, in many cases for the first time. New York felt like a smaller, more intimate place where the shared disaster brought us closer together.

But COVID-19 has prompted the reverse situation. As a result of the rampant infectiousness of the virus, as well as all the resultant (important) lockdowns, we were conditioned to think that other people—on the occasions that you actually saw them—were the enemy. After all, they could be spreading potentially deadly germs, so when you spot them out in public, the tendency is to run the other way, as if you’re starring in a zombie movie where the characters dodge any creature they see on the street. (I always use my own mental CGI—and plenty of imagination—to add in the hanging flesh, dark circles under their eyes, and outstretched arms. Having played a zombie in George Romero’s Day of the Dead, I know the drill.)

As information about the virus’s transmission grew, it became clear that our own biggest threat might be each other, even if we’re all protected and simply going out for essential business. Suddenly, people—even nice, old ladies—seemed deeply menacing; theaters, gyms, and beaches became the devil’s playground; and if someone wasn’t wearing a mask and/or was standing a little too close for comfort, they were Satan himself.

The pandemic has led to conflicting chants of “We’re all in this together” and “Stay the f**k away from me!!!” To reference another historic horror, AIDS started devastating the planet in the early ’80s—and for years, it was a pretty certain death sentence—but it’s nowhere near as easy to get as COVID, since it requires intimate contact or blood-to-blood transmission. The sci-fi angle of COVID—that someone just coughing your way could lead you to a respirator—is straight out of the worst-case-scenario plotlines that have long played on our fears, though the “fiction” in “science fiction” is now as diminished as the chance to have a gala wedding party in an urban event space.

I’ve been as vehement as anyone in shutting down the chance for actual interpersonal communication. One street character without a mask on tried to engage me in conversation the other day as I ran by to buy groceries, but I wasn’t having it. “At least make eye contact!” he shrieked, chiding me for being so impersonal as I brusquely crossed the street. “Eye contact?,” I thought. “Sorry, even that has become a luxury in these days of panic and paranoia. No can do!”

And there are people who can even out-panic me. In April, I was waiting on line outside Trader Joe’s, where they position you with duct-taped markers on the pavement so you stay far enough apart from each other for safety. The man ahead of me on line kept nervously looking back at me, until he finally exploded, screaming, “That’s not six feet!” But it was. I was right on the marker. (Having not much else to do all day, I had made doubly sure of that fact.)

I quickly looked away—no eye contact—and didn’t engage the guy, though I did notice through my peripheral vision that he was continually looking back, clearly hoping to catch me in a faux pas and start a fight. I understood the psychology; anxieties were making people ready to vent at something or someone, as opposed to post-9/11, when we hugged each other and exchanged pleasantries in order to get through the angst. But the experience was so unsettling that I switched to another grocery store for the time being, one where there’s no line at all.

Everyone’s distrust of everyone else kept growing, until mine was put to the test at the end of May, when a national TV channel asked to interview me in person for a pop-culture-related special. Suddenly, my newfound revulsion at other humans was measured against my enduring will to self-promote and stay relevant, and after a fierce internal struggle, the latter won out. But before I would even consider this gig, there was some serious negotiating to be done. They assured me that the spacious studio would be sprayed down, anyone there would be fully masked, and my interviewer would be positioned behind a screen just like my dry cleaner is.

What used to be a sort of glamorous, ego-enhancing experience was starting to sound as clinical as a lab test, but all the precautions were worth it for the chance to be on TV again while also staying alive! What’s more, I insisted that no one would do my makeup but myself—if that’s good enough for Meryl Streep, it’s good enough for me—and I also made sure that there would be a boom mic aimed at me, as opposed to someone awkwardly handling me as they clipped a mic onto my clothes.

By this point, Governor Cuomo had approved lawful gatherings of up to 10 people, if distanced, and this was certainly lawful and distanced. So on with the self-promotion—and it turned out to be fine, with lots of space between me and the very few people there. The only potentially scary moment happened when I arrived and an exiting interview subject greeted me, wondering, “Do you want me to hug and kiss you?” Fortunately, she was kidding.

But generally, I haven’t loosened my resolve to be antisocial that much, since I’ve been spending the brunt of my life staying home, writing, talking on the phone, and watching movies. I’m an event columnist, but there are no events, and if there were, I wouldn’t go to them anyway—except for some protests against police violence, where I’ve stayed masked and separated from the throng.

I have canceled my usual trips to Fire Island, Philadelphia, and Provincetown this summer and at the very most, I will keep riding my bike around Central Park, where I always manage to find a picturesque bench that’s far from the madding crowd (I just hope the squirrels don’t cough). And then I will return home as fast as I can because the mask is so uncomfortable that I usually can’t wait to be back in my apartment and rip it off, then vigorously hose down.

The danger is that this routine is getting a little too comfortable, and Stockholm Syndrome is setting in. I grew up a lonely only child, so I have all the personal defenses in place in order to entertain myself. As a kid, movies were always my salvation, and they remain so, my long-running movie club simply transferring to Zoom and finding it way more convenient than when we all met in my apartment. This way, we can invite more people than before; we can do it twice a week instead of every six weeks, since everyone’s endlessly available; and I certainly don’t have to buy snacks for everyone like I used to. Five dollars saved! No need to clean up either!

You don’t even have to wear pants. And while nothing can take the place of live theater or nightlife, there are plenty of streaming events to partake of—from play readings to drag performances—or I can just download Trolls World Tour or even just lay on the couch and stare at the wall, perfectly OK with my thoughts and fantasies.

While laying here, naturally, I realize that this can’t be forever. As lulling as the isolation can be, we’re going to have to take baby steps back into the real world, when allowed to. Many already have, since some restrictions have been lifted and lockdowns unlocked, one phase at a time. As culture slowly starts reopening, I’ll have to wonder if I want to risk my life just to sit there and watch the inevitable Flock of Seagulls jukebox show on Broadway.

And eventually, there will be a vaccine—not hydroxychloroquine, but a real one—and we will return to mutual trust and romping freely and we’ll actually be able to see people’s entire faces again rather than have to guess half their features. But the freedom will come with an inherent sense of caution based on the knowledge that the virus could come back in another form, or some other epidemic could sweep down the turnpike. The terror, grief, and self-policing that came with this crisis won’t just go away because the virus does.

So how do we stop fearing each other?

I’d say by staying connected, while remaining focused on safety. Also, by realizing that those who don’t play by the rules may be stupid, but they’re not evil. We’re going to have to learn to stay safe while also not approaching our fellow citizens as potential murderers.

I asked a few experts for their thoughts, since I’m hardly a qualified psychologist.

Dr. Jason J. Durant told me, “It’s tough to imagine feeling great about bumping sweaty elbows with strangers in a crowded bar or concert venue for some time. This forced separation has been so visceral and so total that one can only imagine that time will be our only savior on this one. It will take time to ‘forget’ just how much fear we felt about our close-proximity neighbor for such an extended period. We’ll get there, but it won’t be quick, and there will be dustups along the way.”

Psychotherapist Dr. Robi Ludwig offered, “As social beings, we have a longing and a need to connect both physically and emotionally, especially after a period of prolonged social distancing. Having said this, there will be many who remain frightened of others, as we transition to a new post-COVID normal. I see the media and medical experts playing a large role in encouraging others and giving permission to the public to connect in healthy ways. Many will feel comfortable first connecting with those they feel closest to or trust. Small gatherings will happen initially. These may move to medium gatherings as time goes on and we have more tests out there and maybe more reliable tracking devices to confirm negative COVID-19 status. Once we have this in place, confidence will increase and more public events will open up.”

Envisioning a time when more treatments become available “and ultimately a vaccine is developed,” concluded Ludwig, “fears will diminish and larger group events will slowly be reintroduced into our culture. Fear might even feel like a thing of the past.”

Fingers crossed—in gloves, and six feet away from your crossed fingers. Of course some not-so-small public groupings have already started in full force. The killing of George Floyd by Minnesota police officers on May 25 led to a powerful furor of street rallies, though as I mentioned, a lot of the masked protestors hardly practice social distancing.

It’s almost as if the latest revival of an ongoing crisis—the horror of Floyd’s death and other such grotesque incidents aimed at People of Color—erased the crisis we’d just been immersed in (the pandemic) for some people, who haven’t necessarily had to multitask crises before. Conversely, the murder and the aftermath have some people who were finally ready to leave the house just staying in and keeping things double-bolted. Looks like fear is here to stay.

NYC-based Michael Musto is a longtime nightlife chronicler and pop culture commentator. Follow him on Twitter, via @mikeymusto.

Chelsea Community News is made possible with the help of our awesome advertisers, and the support of our readers. If you like what you see, please consider taking part in our GoFundMe campaign (click here). To make a direct donation, give feedback about the site, or send a Letter to The Editor via email, at scott@chelseacommunitynews.com.