I used to enjoy living in New York City - past tense.
But the City was on a long, slow decline even before the pandemic, making it harder to enjoy living there.
Murders jumped 40% during the pandemic. Hundreds of restaurants closed permanently. Faded "For Lease" signs appeared everywhere, block after city block, lining empty sidewalks.
Empty except for the homeless.
They knew that living in a crowded shelter during a pandemic would be downright crazy, and preferred to sleep outside and aggressively "ask" the few remaining passers-by for cash.
At the outset of the pandemic I had been in Detroit on an assignment. I misjudged the speed at which things were falling apart and ended up stranded there in a hotel for a couple of months.
I managed to return to New York during the pandemic lull in June of '20 - but the lull was temporary, and New York then went into an even deeper lockdown, making it almost impossible to leave my small apartment. I spent day after day fielding Zoom® calls, and fighting boredom.
I even began answering Robo-calls for amusement.
I talked to a guy who tried to sell me an extended warranty for my car. Of course, living in New York City I didn't have a car, but that didn't stop him. He was a nice man from New Delhi with three kids, and his name was Aayansh.
There was the Russian lady who said she was from the Social Security Administration, and if I gave her my social security number she could check to see if anyone had stolen it. After all, she was pretty sure somebody had stolen it. Or was about to.
And there was the Nigerian prince -- well, you know all about that one. He's probably sent you an email, too -- he's got like $1 billion to share with anyone who will pass along their banking details.
So it was boredom that led me to answer my phone that Tuesday, when it rang with an unknown number.
"Hi" she began, "I'm calling from the Alumni Association of your college. Do you have a few minutes?"
My college? It had been years - never mind how many.
"Hello. How can I help you?"
"Well," she continued, "we need your help. We had to refit all the dorms to make them Covid-safe. We've needed to buy large amounts of protective gear, and sanitizer. The Health Center has been expanded. The shuttle buses need plastic dividers."
I thought her voice might have seemed familiar as she recounted the school's litany of woes, but I couldn't place it.
She went on. "We've lost our income from room and board since most students have gone home, and we're subsidizing the few who have no safe place to return to. We've had to upgrade the IT systems to enable remote learning. Your Alma Mater needs you."
When she got to the big wind-up I almost felt sorry for the school. But there was more -- just like Aayansh from New Delhi who tried to sell me a car warranty, she had a script.
"Tell me," she said, "do you have a special memory from being here on campus - a professor, a class, friends you made?"
She was moving in for that emotional connection that pries open the wallet.
I mentioned a favorite English professor.
"Oh yes, he passed 20 years ago, but there is a scholarship in his name, did you know that?" Umm, no, I didn't. I suppose that made sense -- that he died. He probably would have been 138 years old by now, or something. That was a little sad.
"You know," she said, "it isn't just the current students who are at risk. The whole school is at risk, as well as those of us who have retired. Our pensions depend upon the school's survival. You probably remember other professors who helped you?"
That caught my ear. "I'm sorry, you said 'those of us'? Did you teach?"
"Yes, I taught applied statistics for years."
A shiver -- and flash of recognition -- went through me. Dr. Ciara.
Ciara Flannagan. Doctor. Dr. Ciara Flannagan was the only woman on the Math faculty at the time -- and not that much older than most of the students.
I had failed statistics class the first time. When I took her class it was my second time around, and I had to get it right. The thing is, she was so distracting, learning was a struggle.
Slim, long strawberry-blonde hair that caught the light as it came through the classroom window, and yes, some incredible curves that you couldn't plot on graph paper with an algebra formula. Well, maybe you could, but why not just admire them instead of plotting them? I know I admired them ever chance I got.
She was also tough, and the material wasn't easy. I'd sometimes fantasize about her at night, alone in my off-campus apartment -- but there was no time for daydreaming in class. Mean, mode, frequency, regression analysis -- it was like a foreign language -- and I was determined to do well.
That determination paid off -- literally. Not only did I get excellent grades, but the following semester, when a paid teaching assistant slot opened up, she selected me and two others to be her assistants.
We'd all meet every Sunday night in her apartment to go over the upcoming week's lessons. By the end of the semester she'd sometimes break the rules and crack open a bottle of wine that we'd all share over the lesson plans. It seemed so grown-up -- but I knew that any fantasies I may have had about her were just that, and would stay that way.
I had to ask. "Dr. Flannagan? Is that you?"
"Yes, how did you know -- oh wait, I see your name here -- I don't believe this -- How have you been?!"
