Author: Tony Cai
Instagram: @tonycailianda
The Cup of Noodles doesn't smell right.
I’ve left the hot water sitting for too long and the paper bowl has softened, the “Nissin Food” logos bleeding ink. The disposable fork sits melted and warped in the soup, a plastic odor wafting out. I trash the steaming cup under my desk, then on second thought remove the whole bag to leave in the hallway for the hotel’s room service. I sign in to the Doordash delivery app for the fifth time in as many days.
The empire strikes back!
I hear Jon Stewart’s voice in the background. I started watching the Daily Show backward from the newest episode and I’ve reached the 2014 Crimea crisis. I don’t know if laughter rejuvenates a person, but it helps me forget my solitary confinement on the third floor of the Exeter Hampton Inn.
The app asks me once again for my name, address, and phone number. Pork Chow Mein and Yaki Udon - surely Pine Garden knows who this order’s coming from by now.
I open a book of trigonometry problems for the national math invitation, still scheduled for next Tuesday, at least for now. Seconds later I’m back on my phone, looking up charts of another kind, charts with curves that show no sign of flattening. Feeling guilty, I snap back to the pencil and paper before me, but I keep drifting. Jon Stewart’s hoarse voice is echoing through the room and I’m gazing around, unfocused. There are still eight drapes on both curtains, still seven lily petals in the oil painting, still thirty-two tassels on the lamp.
The only things changing are the growing piles of clothes on my suitcase and the couch, hanging from door handles. I should collect them all in the basket, I remind myself. But I haven’t, and I don’t. This is what quarantine is all about: making plans that you never follow. I planned to go for a walk today. But I only salvaged ten face masks before my dorm closed, so I choose instead to look out from the window. Again.
Exeter in early spring seems unchanged, at least on the surface. Two gas stations, a Mobil and Sunoco, mark the far corners of what I can see from the hotel. Gallon prices glow from the standing signs as always. On closer inspection, the mini-marts are closed, dim, and unlit. Seacoast newspapers and plastic bags from the nearby Walgreens float about in the street. Exeter was never exactly bustling, but still, I start to feel what’s missing: sporadic signs of small-town life, like a young couple with their Dunkin’ lattes, teenagers loitering on their bikes, or the stray Volkswagen blasting rock music. I gaze in the direction of the Squamscott River, with its condos lining the bank, wondering how many residents are looking out over the same scene as me.
Muffled scuffling of sneakers on the carpet pulls my attention back to my room, and I hear my name called in my Hokkien dialect. Debbie, the owner of Pine Garden, has delivered my lunch herself. She asks me to not open the door but to pick up the food from the hallway after she leaves.
"Our family made some minced pork rice, I brought some for you. Two forks, as usual," she yells. "I gotta go now. Before the peak period, you know."
Leaning against the door, I express my appreciation in the first conversation I’ve had in days. "Everything's gonna be fine. If there's any problem, you know my number," Debbie replies, her voice trailing off as the scuffling of her sneakers fades away in the hallway.