In the final installment of this new five-part series of Stories of COVID-19, we present two stories that explore what it means to be a neighbor, or part of a community, during the pandemic.

Part 1: Feeling more and more isolated as the pandemic continues, Brooklynite Adam Selbst finds purpose in a mutual aid project.

Adam Selbst is a writer and graphic designer from Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Prior to the lockdown he hosted the monthly Big Irv’s Storytelling Roadshow and has been performing around NYC for the last 10 years. Adam lives in a bodega art collective with 64 other people and in his spare time enjoys being slowly poisoned by an ancient, weird mold in his shower and playing charades with his roommates.

Part 2: Separated from her own beloved Persian grandmother during the pandemic, Sarvin Esmaelli stumbles on an opportunity to help someone else’s.

Sarvin Esmaeili is a theatre artist, writer, activist, and storyteller. She is a recipient of the 2019 BC Arts Council Scholarship. Sarvin is a co-creator/performer of Can We Fix It? (Studio 58) and One of a Kind (Vancouver International Children's Festival). She recently created her one woman show: The Songs of Silent Singers. In 2020, she directed a virtual play, Papa Records Everything for The National Theatre School's Art Apart festival. In May, Sarvin will be part of the Arts Club’s LEAP Playwriting Intensive. Sarvin is a recent graduate of Studio 58.

Story Transcripts

Part 1: Adam Selbst

Some people have described me as a bit of an extrovert. Let me explain. I totally willingly live in a converted bodega that doubles as a performance space with seven other people and I love it. I realize to a lot of people this sounds like an absolute nightmare, but for an attention addict like me, it's the perfect place to get a fix. Because the great thing about having seven roommates is that you're almost never, ever alone.

Adam Selbst is a writer and graphic designer from Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

We also we live in the street level and our windows, while they don't open, are these huge bodega windows so the entire block has an excellent view of anything that we're doing in our living room. It's this joyous, overcrowded fish tank.

Easily, though, my favorite feature is this hand-built stage we have in the corner. It's overflowing with plants and musical instruments and it's the centerpiece where we host our events. Or where we used to host our events. Now, it's used to store wet boots and boxes of cleaning supplies and stuff.

So when COVID first strikes New York, just like everybody else, my roommates and I are terrified. Most of us lose our jobs and we're sent home to shelter in place. And for a lot of people this means facing months of isolation but, on balance, I think we're pretty well situated to weather this particular storm. I mean we've got like eight good friends for company, we've got all this bulk-ordered toilet paper and I had purchased a sourdough starter.

We quickly appointed a cruise director, began scheduling events. Jazzercise with Richard Simmons at 8:00 a.m. followed by a craft hour, snack time and then, you know, a brief unscheduled nap for myself. Honestly, I figure we're pretty set for the foreseeable future.

So the first thing to go is the jazzercise. We may have miscalculated people's enthusiasm for waking up at dawn to participate in group exercise. Our cookie-baking parties and movie nights happened less and less frequently as people just get more withdrawn. You know, like increasingly shell-shocked by these terrifying news reports and the eerie silence on our streets that's only punctuated by the piercing wails of what feels like endless ambulances.

Neil is the first one to leave. They've been taking care of a friend uptown so it wasn't a huge surprise but, soon, others start to go too. Maybe it seemed just like an accident waiting to happen. Seven roommates all living together, breathing the same air, but each time one of them leaves I feel more constricted.

Rocky is next. Nicole, she's lived here for years but she soon leaves to go and be with her family. Then Alyssa and, honestly, that one's tough. I can always hear her laughing and teasing people from my bedroom and when she leaves it feels like a lot of the joy leaves with her.

By the time Nathan asked me to go for a walk, I already know what he wants to tell me. When the dust settles, there are only three of us left.

At this point, though, a lack of friendship is the least of my concerns because we aren't able to even pay rent. I try to relax but I can't keep the anxiety from forming in the days ahead. Would we have to shut down? Where would I go? What are we going to do?

My days and nights sort of dissolve into this blur of wine and Netflix. Eventually, I just stopped sleeping all together and I spent my nights wandering from room to room like a drunk ghost haunting an abandoned deli.

My girlfriend Tracy isn't aware of this change in my attitude. And one morning as I'm sitting there bleary-eyed and kind of cranky, she comes to me with a suggestion.

She says, “Hey, I saw that there's this group that started bicycle-delivering groceries to people who can't leave their homes. You love riding your bike. You know, why don't you contact them? I think you'll really like them. They're anarchists.”

“Anarchists?” I say. “I don't really think I'm an anarchist. I'm more of a nihilist.”

“No. I think you're just lazy. I'm going to text you their email.”

Anyway, that's how I meet the Corona Couriers, mutual aid project that delivers medicine and groceries and supplies to people throughout the city. And I hadn't really heard of mutual aid before but I came to understand it as just this sort of like political engagement that focuses on solidarity and community. It's not a charity. This is just like cooperation with friends and neighbors to make sure everyone's needs are being met. And I am super into it.

I get my first call a couple days later and I'm zipping excitedly through the streets of Brooklyn, my newly purchased messenger bag slung over my shoulder, Bonnie Tyler's I Need a Hero pumping through my earbuds. I was psyched.

An immunocompromised family near me had put in a request for an ice cream cake and some birthday candles. Someone's birthday was in trouble and I was going to save it.

It was outside the supermarket after checking out that I encountered my first problem. I can't carry a frozen sheet cake in my bag without ruining it. And I'm standing there transfixed, like something that solved this puzzle unsuccessfully.

I was not going to be saving someone's birthday. I was going to be ruining it. In the end, I just sort of balanced the cake on my handlebars and I get it to its destination. And, you know, it's pretty smushed but, you know, I get it. It's fine. And I ride home totally elated.

A second delivery, though, that provided more significant challenges was in a neighborhood that was so far away that I, as a 25-year New York City veteran had never even heard of it before. And this list is comprised mostly of baby items, you know, diapers, baby food, wipes, whatever. You get it.

But unlike the cake delivery, there is a lot to carry. And also unlike the cake delivery, the stakes here are significantly higher. This isn't just a birthday I could ruin. This is a baby, a human baby infant who needs food and pull-ups and, I don't know, stuff. You know, babies they need stuff. They need things. And there was just no way that I was going to be able to carry all these things on my bike the two miles between the grocery store and my destination.

I'm standing there contemplating how impossible it is until a checkout worker who notices my plate walks over and demonstrates how I could use empty bags to kind of like strap the groceries to myself while still leaving my hands free enough to operate the bicycle. And I realized this is the kind of ingenuity that my operation had been missing all along.

Soon, I'm floating down the street on my bike like an altruistic Michelin man and I've never looked dumber and I've never felt prouder for looking so dumb.

Anyway, the next day I take another delivery and another one the next day, and each day I take a delivery each one of them has its own dumb complications, its own weird issues. And one by one I managed to overcome them.

I end up investing in a set of cheap saddle bags so I could carry more groceries without having to resort to strapping them to myself. And as I become more confident, I start taking jobs that are further and further away. By mid-July I'm taking jobs that are like a good 15 miles from where I live, to neighborhoods I had only ever seen on a subway map before.

And I'm buying food that I had never even heard of before and I feel good. Like not just good from the cycling and not just good because I'm getting out of the house, but because I'm doing something where I'm thinking about somebody else besides myself for a couple hours a day. It turns out that altruism, just like attention, it's pretty addictive.

One day, I catch Tracy looking at me. “Hey, babe,” she says. “You look great.”

“Yeah. Well, you know, I've been sleeping a lot better lately.”

“No. I'm talking about your legs.”

And I look down and I see that my once spindly, like French-fry legs had grown muscled and defined, which is not to say that I look like Richard Simmons or anything but it's enough to garner a little attention from my girlfriend which, as we've previously discussed, I enjoy.

Anyway, a couple months go by and we find people to fill the rooms. Rent it's finally being paid. As I start working again too, it's freelance but, you know, it's work. And I still make my deliveries. It's part of my routine now.

There's still times that I feel like I'm really not going to be able to do it. One of my more recent regulars doesn't have refrigeration so she requires all of her food to be in cans. Cans are really heavy and sometimes I'll be struggling up the hill to her house, breathing in this freezing bus exhaust, the weight of all these cans pulling me backwards and cinching my lungs tight.

But, you know, she needs her cans. She has a kid. Her kid needs her PediaSure so I do it. I do it every time, every day. I do it and it's hard, but I do it.

Now, every day, though, I come home exhausted, like really, really physically exhausted. But when I go into bed at night when I go to sleep, I sleep every night like a fucking dead person. Thank you.

Part 2: Sarvin Esmaelli

I'm sitting on a train glancing at everyone around me. All distanced, all wearing masks, hiding their voices and nobody sits next to me. That makes me feel even lonelier.

My glasses are fogged from the moisture in my mask. My vision is misty and I really want to make eye contact, but all the eyes are glued to phones.

Sarvin Esmaeili is a theatre artist, writer, activist, and storyteller in British Columbia.

I wonder how grandma is doing with her phone. I was her digital support. Taught her how to take pictures, to text and to use emojis. Now, she attaches random emojis, like crazy eyed, tongue sticking out to the end of every single text. Helping her was my excuse to see her, examine the veins on her hands and soak in her smile after she masters something new on her phone.

It's been five months. I haven't seen her for five months. Sometimes I wonder is this all worth it? Shouldn't I be using this time to spend more time with her before it's too late? But the fear of losing her has made me stop seeing her at all. Maybe I should text her.

So I type in L-O-V-E-Y-O-U. Love you. Doesn't feel right.

I change the keyboard to Farsi and type in D-O-O-S-T-E-T-D-A-R-A-M. Dooset daram, with a heart and tongue sticking out emoji. There we go. Sent.

Next stop, Commercial Broadway Station. This is the busiest stop in Vancouver. All kinds of people here. Buskers strumming guitars, the homeless pointing to ‘I Need to Eat’ signs, adults in suits, teens on skateboards with portable speakers blasting Drake's God's Plan. Always two moms with two strollers waiting for the elevator while elders totter at their own pace.

But now, barely anyone here. Only birds chirping from a distance while I'm walking on old cigarette butts on the floor.

It's 2:00 p.m. July 25th and it's smoking hot. And now I'm waiting at the bus stop going to the Grandview Park to see some friends. I don't know how that's going to be. Probably all distanced and sitting awkwardly in silence.

Behind me, an old man's yelling at two older women. Can't quite hear what they're saying.

My heart races. I'm thinking, “Are the women okay? He's so loud and they're so quiet.”

If it was my grandma she wouldn't be quiet. She's screaming to that old man's ear so loud he'd need hearing aids.

And everyone is looking at them, frozen, doing nothing. Should I step in? No. No, no, no. It's not my business. But what if it is?

And the Number 20 arrives and then the two ladies who were being yelled at are now in front of me, the brunette with glasses and the blonde with walker. They both chatter while the bus driver is rolling his eyes waiting for them to decide if they're getting on the bus or not.

Mahsheed’s Friend: “Bebin, man miram, khob baed chanata stop dige mibinamet, biyaya!”

Mahsheed: “Ok. Ok. Negaran nabash. Man yekarish mikonam miyam.”

Mother tongue? My mother tongue? They both speak Farsi. My eyes glow. It's unusual to hear Farsi in downtown area.

Knowing that they're Iranian and were being yelled at by an old Caucasian man just breaks my heart even more. Feels like he was yelling at my grandma.

And then the brunette lady tells the blonde lady who can't decide to get on the bus or not to meet her in four stops so she could give her half of her cherries she bought this morning.

The brunette lady is on the bus but the blonde lady gets off the bus and walks toward the bench. She seems sad, just like she lost a friend.

Now the bus driver is waiting for me to get on the bus. I look at the blonde lady outside sitting all alone and I look at the bus driver impatiently waiting for me. I really want to know what's going on. What if I can help her?

“You're getting on the bus or not?”

“No. Sorry.”

I get off the bus. The bus goes, so does the brunette lady. And I sit on the bench next to the blonde lady. There's an empty seat between us.

I'm still shocked. I look deep into her eyes. She has green eyes and her skin is much lighter than me. Oh, she might be from North of Iran.

I sense her breath.

“Salam, shoma khoobin? Hi, are you okay?”

No mask could hide her smile. Her face just lights up. She's breathless, stuttering.

“Iran?? You Irani??” Finally, she asks.

“Yes, I am Iranian.”

“Bob, Bob. Irani.” She points at the same old man who was yelling at her earlier, but now he becomes a friendly Bob to me.

“You can speak Farsi?” he asked me with excitement.

“Yes, I do.”

“Oh, my goodness. How on earth? Okay, okay. You really need to translate this for me. I am Bob and this is Mahsheed,” he points at the blonde lady. “We are neighbors. You need to tell her that I want to go home. She wants to still see her friend but I want to go home. Tell her that.”

“Chimige?”

So I'm translating everything to Mahsheed.

“Na, na na. Man bayad bebinamesh. Behesh ghol dadam”

Is she saying no?”

Damn, how does he know what she's saying? So I tell Bob that she promised her friend that she would see her in four stops to take some cherries, but Bob just interrupts me and that makes me laugh. He desperately wants me to tell him what's going on, but then at the same time he's too impatient to listen.

“Nope, nope. Mahsheed, we can call her when we get home. I have been waiting for four hours.” He raises four of his fingers up and keeps shaking them at Mahsheed. “Bob needs to go home. What is ‘home’ in Farsi??

“Khoone.”

“Mahsheed. Bob khoone, okay?”

“No! nemitoonam beram khoone. I promised her. She doesn't have a cell phone. She's going to be all worried about me.”

I know Bob is going to be really mad when I translate this, so I try to tell him nicely but it didn't work. He's fuming and keeps yelling. Mahsheed is yelling too, but they're not making eye contact with each other. They're both looking at me, yelling at me.

Now, I am Bob and Mahsheed, and I feel like I have so much power all of a sudden. I feel like I can solve anything, but they're both still looking at me, trying so hard for me to understand what they're feeling.

And then Mahsheed says, “asan khodam miram.I don’t need you. I can go on my own.”

So I tell Bob and he starts laughing like he's the winner of the argument. But then he stops laughing and looks deep into Mahsheed’s eyes and calmly says, “I am not going to leave you here. I am not going anywhere without you. Let's just go home.”

Mahsheed looks at me and is waiting for my response. I tell her, “Bob really cares about you, but he's tired and you can call your friend when you get home. He loves you.”

Her eyes glow again, like she's never heard someone telling her how much he loves her. Maybe Bob doesn't know how to tell her yet.

She finally says. “Okay. Bereem. Okay.”

Bob looks at me and says, “Oh, thank you. Thank God we met you.”

They're no longer looking at me. They're looking at each other and that makes my heart melt. Love needs no language, just eye contact.

I still think about the other woman, though. I helped Mahsheed and Bob but not her. But now I'm really late, so I walk faster. And I hit the pedestrian crossing button with my elbow and so many people are in front of me and I'm trying to pass all of them. I pass the scooter boy, I pass the two moms with strollers, and then there's a lady who's walking really slow.

“Excuse me. Excuse me.” I'm trying to get her attention so I can pass her too, but then I see her hands. She's carrying a full bag of cherries.

This can’t be it. I can't see her face, only her back.

“Excuse me.” She doesn't look back. “Excuse me.” Still nothing.

She turns her head back. It's her, the brunette lady with glasses, Mahsheed’s friend. And I say in Farsi, “This is really weird, but I wanted to tell you that your friend Mahsheed really wanted to see you but Bob was really tired and they went home, but she's going to call you soon.”

Her bag of cherries are about to collapse.

“What? Really? Chikar konam ba ina? What should I do with these? She was supposed to come and get the cherries.”

And then after a hot second she goes, “Bia ina hame male to . Here. Take all of these cherries, all for you.”

“Oh, you don't have to, really.”

“Here, take it. It's yours now. Do you want to have my number? Here, put in your phone. You can call me or visit me,” and then she starts walking towards home again and then stops and turns her head back. “You want to come over now?”

“Oh, merci. Wow. Thank you so much for these cherries. Bebakhshid esmetoon chiye? Sorry, what's your name?”

“What?”

My words don't reach her. Maybe she has hearing loss. So I yell back and say, “Merci. Thank you. Merci.” She smiles with her eyes, just like my grandmother, and heads home.

She gave me her number without introducing herself and invited me over without even knowing me.

I'm sitting on the grass glancing at friends around me, all distanced, all wearing a mask, and a big bag of cherries on my lap. Fingertips, all red, slushy, sparkling, melting with the slick of my tongue, swimming in the tense air.

I look at my phone and I open a text from grandma.

“Delam barat tang shode. Mikhay baezi oghat berim ghadam bezanim ba mask? Miss you. Would you like to go for a walk sometimes, masked up and distanced?” Tongue sticking out emoji. She's still here. Her soul has been with me all day.