We should toss our hats and scoff at stiff licorice.
What, you want an explanation for that? Fine. It started when I heard our Mary might be in trouble, so I had to go downtown to investigate. Journalism and all that.
Gloves: check. Mask, left over from a box I bought for the 2009 Swine Flu fun-fest: check. Bottle of sanitizer, which I now regard as both vaccine and holy water: check. Tape measure for ensuring 6-foot distancing: check. Flare gun, dried food, extra water, check. Press credentials to assert that I am somehow essential, which is stretching the term to the point of meaninglessness: check.
OK. Let's go.
Imagine how I would have suited up if I'd planned to get out of my car.
The streets appeared normal, if a bit scant on perambulating citizens. It's not the empty streets that seemed strange — I've been to downtown St. Paul at 3 p.m., so it doesn't seem all that odd. (Kidding! Sort of.)
What seemed odd was the tall towers with 50 empty stories. Elevators on the ground floor like dogs waiting for their owners to come home. The click and hum and whoosh of a heating system automatically turning on to adjust the comfort for a room of unoccupied chairs. All the screen savers rolling through vacation photos. The occasional blurble of a phone, unanswered; the trickle of bickering from a TV news station on a set someone left on.
When I left the office — two years ago now, I think — I took my bag of licorice from the drawer because I didn't think I'd be back for a while, and that stuff goes hard. If I could sum up the downtown business district right now, I'd say: "It's a lot of stiff licorice."