Excerpt of “On the Loose”

by David McLoghlin

When the pandemic hit, David McLoghlin and his wife, Adrienne, made the decision to move from New York City to his home country of Ireland. In the nine years he lived in New York, McLoghlin had developed a tempestuous relationship with the city, aggravated by the incessant noise and the hoards of people. This was due in part to his PTSD from an incident of sexual abuse in his childhood. But two months into the pandemic, McLoghlin found himself collecting his belonging at work with a fresh perspective on the city. The following excerpt is from his story, “On the Loose,” one of our honorable mentions:

After I picked up my effects at work, I felt like a bank robber, leaving the office with an overstuffed rucksack — not a cardboard box — and wearing a mask. The security man at the front desk looked up from his book and waved. The grate of the little store run by a pair of ebullient brothers was down, and the lobby deserted. They liked to joke with the building staff; they even knew Cuomo. Indeed, he shouted, “Hey, guys!” to them whenever he was in the building. It was something I said to friends: “Did you know? I work in the same building as the governor,” as if this was a point of distinction, but there was nothing more to say on the subject, other than that, at times, I jumped out of the way of his security detail: I was afraid of getting shot if they got spooked. He was elsewhere now, spearheading New York’s COVID response, getting all the limelight, while de Blasio appeared to be spinning his wheels.

After stopping at Adrienne’s school, we coasted back from Jersey City through the empty Holland Tunnel. We tried to return our public library books at the main branch at Fifth Avenue, but the return bins had been removed for health reasons. On the southwestern corner of 42nd Street and Bryant Park while Adrienne circled around again, in the absence of human traffic I stood and felt the sun on my balding scalp, and the breeze and felt a kind of relief until I felt guilty about it. Further down Fifth, there was a sign in all caps left over from Easter on the marquee outside an Episcopal church: “JESUS IS ON THE LOOSE!” I imagined a bare-foot savior running down the deserted streets, cackling with Good News. I couldn’t be sure if that was the intended image, but it seemed appropriate. Heady with our escape and with our only time alone as a couple since the start of the lockdown, we decided to get farewell take out from Ivan Ramen, the famous restaurant in the Lower East Side. Adrienne double parked on Clinton Street and I went in. A waitress emerged. We spoke to each other from a distance, both of us masked up. She was almost casual:

“Are you David? Just to let you know—it’ll be a few minutes. We wanted to prep the noodles fresh. You can wait outside—or in here, if you like?”

I wanted to gush about how much it meant, to still be able to do this, but she disappeared into the kitchen before I could say anything. I decided to wait inside: I knew it would probably be my last time. I felt like Neo in The Matrix: that scene where, passing a restaurant he now knows was only a computer program, he says, “I used to eat there…Really good noodles….”

Adrienne and I had been there for the first time in February when it was elbow to elbow at the miniscule tables for two.

“Are you ok?” she had asked, somewhat solicitous, perhaps remembering my stress attacks in other crowded places.

“Yeah—I’m grand, actually. I’m fine.”

“Wow, you’ve come a long way: well done, Daithí!” I smiled and reached for her hand. I love the sweetness inherent to her calling me by the Gaelic version of my name.

She was right: I didn’t have meltdowns anymore, as I had in other packed restaurants when we were first together. I’d done therapy and—as just importantly—I’d had a lot of exposure therapy, the city providing the challenge as well as the cure. Standing in the deserted restaurant, looking at the turquoise-colored tables stretching away, I couldn’t get my head around it. As cranky and reactive as I’d been, I wanted the pre-COVID New York back, brimming with loud and irritating people. I wouldn’t mind if we brushed elbows, if I was sitting close enough to hear an entire conversation, or if they interrupted us to give directions or marriage advice. In fact, I would welcome it.

“Wake up,” I thought. “Just wake up.”