Geezers in the Age of the Youth Pandemic

Welcome to another episode of Benjamin Rubenstein’s Storytells, where I typically share true and personal stories though today, I share a fictional short story. You can listen to this on Spotify, Amazon Music, Apple Podcasts, Google Podcasts, Castbox, Deezer, JioSaavn, Podcast Addict, Podchaser, Spreaker, or your favorite podcast platform by way of the RSS feed. You can also listen to or read it below, and if you do, I hope you enjoy!

First, some background: In March 2020, many public places around the U.S. closed, either voluntarily or by order, to protect vulnerable people from catching Covid-19. Despite the pandemic, less vulnerable young adults cavorted around. They were going to continue partying and living their lives, saying that whatever happens to them—or more likely to their elders— happens. Many people in political or social power criticized the youths. That included pop star Ariana Grande, who tweeted, “The ‘we will be fine because we’re young’ mindset is putting people who aren’t young and/or healthy in a lot of danger.”

But, Grande’s opinion seemed to have little impact. The youths seemed either not to accept or care about their new labels as selfish, cold-hearted, and harbingers of death.

Thinking back on this 2.5 years later got me thinking: what if the tables were turned on who the vulnerable really were?

That question led me to write this story, titled, “Geezers in the Age of the Youth Pandemic.” I performed this story at the 18th Anniversary Party for Eastern Village Cohousing in Silver Spring, Maryland. This story is a work of fiction, but with Halloween coming up, who knows—maybe it could become our spooky and morbid reality soon.

Note: Benjamin Rubenstein’s Storytells is best when heard, not read, because of the emotion the art of oral storytelling evokes. If you can, I encourage you to listen to the audio. 

[Music: Revealed by Ketsa]

My name is Daniel and I’m a 65-year-old early-retired software engineer, and this is not just my story. Rather, this is the story of all Baby Boomers. All we ever wanted was to remain respected, perhaps even revered, but instead we’ve been forgotten.

But: we Boomers are forgotten no longer. This is our comeback story, and I’m telling it to you from my perch at Bluejacket’s patio during the new pandemic.

Bluejacket is a boilermaker factory-turned-beer palace that brews the tastiest IPA in Washington, D.C. Just three blocks from Nationals Park, this brewery had served as a second home to drunken youths pregaming. But, where are those youths now on this brisk fall evening?

They aren’t here. Even if the World Series hadn’t been canceled, they’d still be stuck at home. I never thought this dream would come true, but all Bluejacket patrons here now are old enough to be members of AARP.

You figure something like this could only happen in a dream. Nobody and no algorithm could have predicted we’d have a new killer just after the Covid. This new virus that causes the disease known as Twenties/Thirties Respiratory Syndrome—or TTRS—multiplied like coding bootcamps across the globe. Most oddly, TTRS is only dangerous to younger adults.

In fact, my cohort is being spared such that we may barely even develop a cough from this new strain. But, the fatality rate in infected individuals aged 20-39 is twenty-five percent. For every four who strut through Bluejacket’s doors to grab its quintessential IPA Lost Weekend—with its citra hops and notes of tangerine and peach—one of those young fools will perish.

So, we Boomers are here saving Bluejacket. The brewery needs us just to stay afloat. That is until TTRS abates and Bluejacket’s former patrons return. But will TTRS abate? Or will it continue its killing spree, leaving so many young, fit carcasses on the streets that they can only be piled and then burned? And if TTRS does continue terminating the youths, will it be because we Boomers ignore pleas for social distancing? Are we accomplices, or worse, are we the real killers by not just staying home and letting the virus die out without anybody to infect?

That’s what the youths are saying, like human selfie stick Ariana Grande who begs us to just stay home. My darling wife of 44 years Sara becomes subdued when she reads posts related to the viral #boomerremover. Seeing her frown and her cheeks lose their rosiness just crushes me. The youths have terrorized her, and Sara says maybe we should just stay home. Maybe we have turned selfish and cold, she says.

No. No. No. My babe is always right, except this time, after all the misery we’ve endured. 

Our suffering began a year ago. As soon as we left the workforce, the youths castrated us. I guess they figured since they could no longer use us to get promoted, we were dead to them. The thing is that we still could have taught them so much. I could have taught them how to utilize our work skills to build a winning fantasy football team. Sara could have taught them that the secret to charming donors—or anyone really—has nothing to do with the smile but everything to do with a desire to share in a good laugh. But, our wisdom was no longer valued, and so nobody under 55 conversed with us unless we were paying them.

Conversing with peers wasn’t much better. All our Boomer friends could discuss were the fancy new job titles their kids were gifted, their grandkids, and their granddogs. But, what about them and their projects? Where had their vigor for their present lives and the present moment disappeared to? Poof, it was gone forever, stolen by the youths like Covid stole our son Tuvia’s zayde’s last breath.

At the beginning of spring, we realized we were catching the same infection of lifelessness that was killing our friends. Tuvia called like he did every Sunday and asked what we’d been up to. I said I was researching which sector-based ETFs to buy. Sara said she was researching the best smart shades on Wirecutter. We threw in some other non sequiturs. We knew we were engaging in just about the lowest form of conversation, but we couldn’t stop it; we had nothing else to offer.

Tuvia said he had to go, but not in the fun way he used to, when he’d have to hop off or get sucked into another long story. Before the youths began killing us, we had endless stories. Stories about the deep-learning healthcare software I’d been creating to improve MRI scans. Cardiac researchers are soon going to have 50 times more data to work with! And stories like the time Sara spilled brisket juice on her yellow cocktail gown at her fundraiser’s gala and just kept on partying.

The call ended. Sara started crying. She said our calls with Tuvia had become shorter and shorter, that he only calls now because he feels obligated, and that at some point he’ll just forget. The youths, including our own son, were forgetting us.

Sara said she wanted to go to bed. I tucked my weary sweetheart in. I pulled the covers tight and kissed her forehead. Right then, I vowed never again to allow her to feel neglected. She’d never feel any less than the goddess she has been throughout our 44 years together.

Then mere days later, Twenties/Thirties Respiratory Syndrome began spreading in the U.S. Researchers quickly discovered that, for people our age, TTRS would pass so subtly that we’d never know we’d contracted it. But the youths—they would have to stay home or risk death.

Within a week of TTRS’s spread, they lost their jobs at a pace that exceeded the worst week of the Great Recession. All sports were canceled. Many establishments shuttered.

On what would have been baseball's Opening Day, Sara and I went out to see firsthand what this new world looked like. This was the first time we checked out the patio at Bluejacket, which Tuvia had said was all the rave. No youths were there to shout over us for drink orders, so our server quickly brought us two orangey hazy beers in pretty teku glasses. We held the beer in our mouths, letting the sweetness and bitterness explore our palates. It led our skeletons to feel light, like we were made of air. It was a wonderful evening. We kept returning to Bluejacket, where we’ve been having the time of our lives swapping stories with all the other Boomers we’ve befriended.

In fact, that’s where we are right now on this cool evening. The patio feels so cozy with all the propane heaters blazing. It’d be nice if the World Series game was on, but we got used to the death of sports. We’ve also gotten used to a world without the youths. They’ve been basically out of sight for so long that we actually kind of forget about them. Tuvia said as much after we forgot to call him on Sunday. 

The sparkle is back in my love’s eyes. She’s chatting it up with the other Boomers. She’s got a Lost Weekend in one mittened hand, and her other is whizzing all around, animated as she’s telling a story. Bob Dylan is pulsing through the speakers, so I can’t tell which story Sara is telling. Though, it doesn’t even matter. Whichever it is, she can continue on telling it as long as she’d like. We’re not going anywhere. TTRS can just continue on with its #youthremover. 

Later, Sara may awaken from another nightmare. She’s got this recurring one where she jolts up in bed sweating and mumbling about how she was about to commit filicide. I’ll have to calm my love and remind her it was just a dream. Tuvia is following all the protocols and will be just fine. And besides, whatever happens, happens.

[Music: Revealed by Ketsa]