Emergence

For the past four years, I have spent most of my time—living, working and playing—within the four walls of my house. It has become a cocoon, one I leave less often than I should. For a while, cocooning was novel. Then it struck me as kinda funny. Something to make a joke about. Something I named hermatitis. Then it stopped being funny. Now it’s worrying me.

I have never been the most outgoing guy, but at least I was going out, leaving my house frequently, seeing other people on a regular basis. That changed with the start of Covid. Obviously, I was not alone. The whole country was in lockdown.

Pam, my saint of a wife, and I adhered to the rules of lockdown—mostly. We defined our lockdown bubble to include the market and our older daughter’s house, which Pam made sure we visited every week. We saw one other couple on a social basis every month or so, always sitting outside. Other than that, we were housebound, meaning we stopped going to work, the gym, concerts, movies and restaurants, and stopped seeing the remainder of our friends. I stopped seeing my cronies from the Porsche Club, as I no longer went to Porche Club events, including Cars and Coffees and organized backroads drives. Hell, I even stopped going to Luftgetkült, the granddaddy of all air-cooled Porsche shows and the one I had had my cars displayed in for several years.

I accepted the lockdown limitations with equanimity—not the cause, just the result. I took to them easily, like a duck takes to water, like a hot knife cutting through butter. Lockdown enabled me to simplify my life, as I no longer traveled for work, left at zero dark thirty to exercise at Equinox, fought traffic or waited at restaurants.

There was even an unexpected, though much appreciated, upside to the lockdown: We had more time to spend with our children and grandchild.

I tried using food delivery services a couple of times when lockdown started because I was leery of going to the market. I was nonplussed by the results, though, and I decided to risk going to the market. I minimized that risk by going Sunday mornings, leaving my house before seven. I felt comfortable, as the market was empty at that time. Interestingly, I noticed the same shoppers and workers in the store each week and began speaking to them, wearing a mask and keeping a safe distance. I learned the names of the produce guy and the checker. I talked to them more than I spoke to many of my friends. They became my de facto cronies, as I had few others. I would laugh to myself about the absurdity of my situation, thinking how comfortable I was with the lockdown, loving not leaving my cocoon, telling people I had hermatitis, the fake disease I created to describe my behavior.

The lockdown ended after about a year, enabling me to do more. I left the house slightly more often. I was no longer concerned about getting Covid because I was vaccinated, had had myriad booster shots, and had not contracted it, even though Pam had had it twice. Pam and I saw a few more people. We ate at more restaurants, though usually outside. We went on vacation. I kept going to the market on early Sunday mornings. The produce guy and the checker continued to be my cronies.

I fell into a rut-like existence. Each week had the same cadence. Each week felt like a groundhog week, with very few changes from the prior one. I lost the desire or need to return to my prior lifestyle. Maybe it was just inertia, maybe it was something worse, but I continued to exist primarily within the confines of my four walls.

My Porsches kept collecting bird shit in my driveway and dust in my garage. I rarely felt the urge to use or clean them. I am shocked that I have driven my 2015 Porshe Cayman GTS, my supposed daily driver, fewer than three thousand miles in more than four years. I buy gas for it every two or three months, and I think it spends more time recharging its battery while it sits idling in my driveway than it does on the road. My feet have covered more miles than it has.

I spend my workdays staring at my computer, looking at spreadsheets or people on Zoom calls. I eat lunch by myself almost every day, which has the upside of enabling me to save money and keep my diet clean. I never call anyone to go out, though I will grudgingly go if I get an invitation, which my friend, Jeff, gives me every month or so, invitations that usually require me to clean one of my Porsches.

Until recently, it felt comfortable. Now it concerns me, as I live like a fucking hermit, and it’s not so funny anymore.

Worse, as seventy is the next mile marker on my road trip through life, I feel like I am squandering my remaining quality time, which is dwindling at an alarming rate. I feel it’s time to emerge from my cocoon, leave my house, relegate the produce guy and checker from crony to acquaintance status and, most importantly, find new cronies.

Thankfully, I have a few potential cronies in mind, but I will have to pay a pretty penny to elevate them to crony status. At a time when I want to reduce my workload, thereby reducing our income, and when Pam is set to retire, further reducing our income… and when I should be husbanding cash… I plan to spend more money, rent a vacant office in my friend’s suite of offices—a suite he shares with two other guys who I know and have skied with for years, and who can return to crony status overnight. On the surface, this office space is a waste of money. It’s not like I need an office—I don’t—but I need cronies, and I need to get out more.

I would like to take credit for the plan, but I can’t. I owe it all to John. Last month, I called him to wish him a happy birthday. He was hanging out at the beach with his wife on the big island. After I delivered his birthday wishes and got caught up on his vacation, he asked me if my ears were burning. With some trepidation, I asked, “Why?” Laughing, he told me that he and his office mates had discussed asking me to rent their vacant office. I got the sense they thought—somewhat appropriately—that it would be difficult to pry me out of my cocoon.

John, who I have known for over fifty years and is more like a brother, is the consummate salesman. His first part-time job was selling Yellow Page ads. How many people could do that? He could… and was good at it. He knows how to push, prod, cajole, deflect, all the while staying on the right side of the line, stopping just short of being irritating. I knew this was important to him and would be his current raison d’être, his sales pitch du jour.

As we spoke, John dropped into sales mode, telling me to think about it. No pressure. Sure. He pointed out why it was a win-win-win situation. He needed an office mate. Pam needed me out of the house after retirement. And, most importantly, I needed to get the fuck on with my life. He was right, and I knew I would do it, but I wanted him to work for it. So, I said, “Thanks. You make good points. I’ll think about it. Talk to you later.”

We talked again before he got back. Of course, the conversation revolved around the vacant office. I heard all about the win-win-win. Not to mention the lack of pressure. Sure. I remained non-committal, enjoying the process.

The following Sunday morning John drove up and parked in front of my house, unannounced and uninvited, but not unwanted. I didn’t realize he was out there, sitting in a Guards Red Porsche 911 GT3, the one he babysits for his son-in-law, the one with the racing bucket seats that are so hard to get in and out of, the one he wants me to drive.

Instead of knocking on my door, he chose to call me. When the phone rang, I was in the bathroom, bent over the sink brushing my teeth. If the water hadn’t been running, I would have heard the sublime exhaust note of the Porsche. Spewing toothpaste, I answered his call on my Apple watch. The connection was not great, but I heard well enough to converse with him, “You’re where? You want me to do what? Drive the GT3? Sure, but I need to get out of my pajamas and finish cleaning my teeth. It will take me a couple of minutes.”

Pam, possibly overhearing our conversation, but more likely hearing the Porsche, went outside to say hello. I should have known she would. When I was heading to the front door, I yelled, “I am going to drive the GT3.” I got no response and did not see her, so I went outside.

Pam was leaning over with her head in the open passenger window. She was laughing. I knew I was the subject of her laughter. I knew John had told her it was in her best interest if I rented the office, that the last thing she needed in retirement was to have me underfoot. He knew she would support his cause. I knew it, too. Game over.

She stood up as I approached, smirking as she said, “Have a nice drive!”

I did.