Six Feet Apart

It’s May, a pandemic is raging, and the National Guard flanks the entrance to Meridian Hill Park. We go for a walk.

They clump in twos or fours with nothing at all to do, just eye picnic-goers like us, their automatic rifles sitting gingerly on their hips. Their presence isn’t quite clear, justified only by vague national orders. No one, not even them, seem to know why they’re really here, at this two-level park that stretches five blocks, boasting only a dry fountain and patchy crabgrass. Its beauty lies in its history — marble statues constructed in the early 1900s, then drum circles and a renaming later in the century.

Photo: Steven L. Markos

The park has become the backyard for many during D.C.’s stay-at-home order. There’s the old guy with his dog, Stitch, who he lets weave in and out of large groups — an excuse to chat. There are the morning joggers, the nannies and kids midday, the twenty-something roommates drinking as the sky turns dusty purple. About half wear masks and half do not. It is difficult to know what’s the necessary thing to do.

The trees are the only real markers of time. They were bare at the beginning of lockdown, then budding in April, lining every rectangular side of the park. They turned electric at the height of spring, like neon stickers against the cerulean sky. By June, they’ll be dark green; they will have gained some wisdom.

After the National Guard, we usually run into Akim, an elderly Trinidadian man who lives in the same apartment building as us — just steps from the northeast entrance. He stands quietly in a particularly roughly hewn enclave. His hands are folded behind him, one over the other, and he’s semi-hidden by the trees that hang low, as untrimmed as people’s hair in the pandemic. He always wears a mask and we chat amicably, without fail, every time we walk by him: the weather, his landlord, our weekend.

Looking out at the expanse of the upper level and its stretches of grass, first dates are easy to spot despite cases rising: One member from the party sits nervously on a recently unearthed blanket, checking their phone or reading. The men run their hands through their hair, wearing sunglasses; the women have applied makeup, and put on a nice top or dress. We know it must be a first date when the other — a single person — arrives, and sits at the edge of the recently unearthed blanket. Conversation, and, if they’re lucky, a cheese plate, ensue. They last an hour, maybe two. All the time, they’re wondering: Is this worth the risk? Love never felt like such a gamble.

Most nights, two soccer players occupy a large swath of grass in the center of the park. The first time we “met” was when their ball nearly knocked over our beers, but it wasn’t long before their tenacity won us over: two shirtless and out-of-shape guys well into their thirties, hustling after the ball and working on their skills. It makes us feel better that we’re usually drinking beers while they play. If we’re not picnicking, we walk on, leaving them to their intricate moves and well-placed passes. They seem focused on nothing else.

Two men on our left, one on a stone bench and the other on a foldout chair, balance a thin board on their knees; they face off in what seems like the tenth game of checkers. Some nights, coconuts are cracked against the hard side of the bench. Other nights, Heinekens appear miraculously, over and over, from a small backpack. And every night, African music provides the soundtrack to someone’s sweet victory, a big smile on one side of the pair, and an inevitable rematch.

Behind the bench, a couple — presumably a couple — exudes the kind of easy pomp that comes from attending an elite East Coast college. The first time they meet, she’s sitting on a slope, reading a novel. He approaches with a cigarette behind his ear, wearing a forest green Barbour jacket even as the sun blazes above him. They hug. They talk about the end of their law school years. When they stay for hours, just talking, and then walk in the same direction at the end of the night, it’s clear that at least this first date, out of all the myriad awkward ones in this park, was successful.

Past the checkers players and well-dressed couple, along the east side of the park, a group of middle-aged guys have staked their claim to a patch of shaded grass, planting a metaphorical flag and designating it as their regular drinking ground. The rules for citizenship seem loose and immigration policies are lax. The circle is often one of the last groups in the park. The requirements seem only that applicants bring beer and pretend to stay six feet away — a stipulation that diminishes as the sun wanes and the cans accumulate.

The truth is, people don’t really socially distance. That’s what we learn on the first really nice evening of spring, when it’s warm enough to wear a tank top or T-shirt and just sit out for hours. Groups of five, six, seven, occasionally even 10, crowd around shared coolers. They laugh with their heads back; they revel in the bit of freedom and optimism that comes from the dropping coronavirus cases in D.C.

Of course, there’s the one in the group that’ll actually do the right thing: stay on their own blanket, go home after the night and scrub their hands, even as they let their mind twist into the worst-case scenario. But for those few hours in the park, they can pretend as if everything’s normal: just a spring picnic, sipping on a slightly warm light beer and indulging in tortilla chips with salsa — their own containers. Everything’s fine, they’ll later tell themselves. I did everything I could. We keep walking.

The park is supposed to close at dark. At its south end, looking out over the lower tier and the city beyond — all the way to the granite obelisk — we’re joined by other sunset-watchers. We lean against the stone bannister and collectively pause for a moment, appreciating how the apricot sun fades into strawberry, then plum, then darkness.

But when we turn to head home, three months have passed, and our walk through Malcolm X Park, aptly renamed by Angela Davis, looks different. In June, people still picnic, but they also gather for marches to the White House. It feels right this way, the park suddenly full of young activists and allies. A megaphone roars over the first dates. The well-armed National Guard is long gone, called away weeks ago in response to the Black Lives Matter protests. All the regulars have disappeared, vanished back into their own lives. The drinking circle has long since disbanded; the soccer players moved their game when D.C. started opening up. We haven’t seen Akim in weeks and we can’t help but wonder: Is he okay?

Mostly, though, we wonder who’s at the protests, and who’s at home.

We hear the names of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor. And we can’t help but turn and walk south, toward the White House.