Since the summer of 2017, I’ve worked as an independent contractor for UberEats, Postmates, & DoorDash. By my count I’ve completed over 7,000 deliveries in all kinds of weather on my bike.

When you ride your bike, you tend to see more things, both good and bad, than you would in a car. Especially when you live in a city like New Orleans.

On a crystal clear Sunday afternoon a few weeks ago, I had a dispatch to go to the Shake Shack on Canal & North Peters, directly across the street from the Audubon Insectium. Most Sundays, especially the one I’m describing, you see throngs of people.

In fact, one of my best friends from college and I met up to watch the tail end of Krewe of Tucks in the neutral ground on Canal weeks prior.

But not this Sunday.

After getting the order and going inbound from the river towards Burgundy and the Kalias Mausoleum, I paused for a second and snapped the photo you’re looking at now.

Instead of people, there’s nothing. No valets. No bums. Nothing.

The same could be said about the destination I had to go to, the Ritz Carlton. As I stood in the front desk area waiting for my customer, I felt like I had walked into an abandoned building filled with squatters. The only thing that didn’t make it that way was the nice attendant who I chatted with.

“I’m over it,” I said to the attendant.

That sentiment rang true again when I received word that in a span of 12-14 hours, I lost an uncle and a great-aunt. Two weeks prior a great-uncle died, which meant that my cousin had to bury both his parents within a two week span. Another relative died Sunday.

When this quarantine began, I was certain I would be able to adapt to it and keep my mind busy.

But when you have to log onto Facebook and see news about another relative dying and on top of that, realize that they can’t have funeral services, you then become frustrated. You become anxiety ridden.

Not because they’re dead, because the relatives that just died were in their 70’s & 80’s.

But because of an incompetent buffoon, my cousins couldn’t have that last moment with them. They couldn’t have that.

They had to die alone.

And then there’s my bartender friends. Every time I bike past Tracey’s or Igor’s, I want to super kick the orange buffoon’s ass into the river. That’s how angry the sight of a closed Igor’s or a closed Tracey’s make me. Because of his inaction, my friends can’t work.

While New Orleans for the most part is turning the corner with this virus, the frustration remains with me. I have a mom who I haven’t spoken to in five years that works at Methodist South that just turned 63 in March. I have a dad that just turned 62 today. Granted I don’t have the best relationship with my parents, but they’re my parents.

I just want to live again. I want to be able to hug people. Drink beer with friends. Order food indoors and just feel normal again.

Because this ain’t it, chief.