City of plague:A New Yorker’s pandemic chronicle Pt 16.

The sky that morning looked as if it had sunk into a deep gray abyss. Then, without warning, the rain began.

At first the drops were scattered, but soon they grew heavier—big, bean-sized drops pounding the pavement with relentless persistence. The rain fell harder and harder until the entire city seemed swallowed by it. It had already been raining for an entire morning, stubborn and unyielding, as if the storm had made up its mind not to leave.

The wind whipped the rain into people’s faces, cold enough to pierce through coats and sweaters. The chill seemed to drill straight into my bones, making my whole body shiver.

In all the years since I immigrated to New York, I had never seen rain like this—wild, unruly, almost arrogant in its intensity.

Standing by the window, I looked out at Broadway in Manhattan. The street was strangely empty. Only the rain was moving—racing across the asphalt like a lonely runner.

At that moment I felt a strange thought crossing my mind. It seemed as if the sky understood the loneliness, confusion, and helplessness people were feeling during the pandemic. The storm looked like the city’s own tears.

Perhaps the rain was trying to wash something away.

Maybe it was trying to scrub the virus off the earth and carry it far out into the ocean—somewhere beyond the horizon—so that it would disappear forever.

Large trucks were rare on the street now. Private cars passed by only occasionally, their tires slicing through the puddles with a dull splash. Yellow taxis and ride-share cars had almost vanished entirely.

It was as if they had all silently agreed to stay away from Manhattan, trying to escape what had become the epicenter of the pandemic.

Only the delivery trucks remained.

They moved through the rain like determined soldiers.

During those months, delivery services had become one of the few industries whose workload had not decreased—in fact, it had increased dramatically.

With residents staying home to avoid infection, everything from groceries to household supplies had to be delivered.

The streets were filled with trucks from the major courier companies:

USPS, UPS, and FedEx.

Their vehicles appeared everywhere in Manhattan—on avenues, on side streets, in front of apartment buildings. For the first time I could remember, there seemed to be more delivery trucks than pigeons in the city.

Whether in Upper Manhattan, Midtown, or Downtown, these workers were everywhere.

Rain or snow, wind or sunshine—they never stopped.

All of them wore their company uniforms. Some pushed handcarts stacked with packages. Others dragged small rolling carts behind them. Sometimes they carried large boxes in their arms while hurrying through building lobbies and climbing endless flights of stairs.

Their steps were quick and decisive. Every minute mattered.

No matter how big or small the package was, it had to reach the customer’s door. Only when the recipient signed on the small electronic screen—no bigger than a smartphone—would the delivery worker finally move on to the next stop.

When the rain finally stopped that afternoon, sunlight slowly broke through the clouds.

The golden light spread across the neighborhood, bringing warmth back to the gray streets.

Around three o’clock, something unexpected happened.

People began appearing at the entrances of apartment buildings. Some stood on their balconies. Others leaned out of their windows.

Then, almost as if it had been planned in advance, they began clapping.

The applause echoed through the streets.

Residents of Manhattan were applauding the delivery workers.

It was their way of saying thank you—to the people who risked their health every day so that thousands of households could still receive food, medicine, and daily necessities.

The clapping spread from building to building.

The delivery workers looked up in surprise. Some laughed. Some waved.

Many of them began clapping back.

For a brief moment, the empty city felt alive again.

One of the hardest-working delivery men I knew was a man named Adams.

He worked for one of the three major courier companies in the United States. His uniform was light green, and he was tall—much taller than me—but his body was slim rather than muscular.

At first glance, I had doubts about him.

Could someone with such a thin frame really handle such demanding physical work?

But I soon discovered how wrong I was.

Adams moved quickly and efficiently. His back was straight, his arms strong. Watching him lift heavy boxes made me think of steel—lean, but incredibly tough.

From morning until evening, he was always moving between several office buildings where I worked. I would see him in hallways, elevators, loading docks, and building entrances.

His endurance constantly amazed me.

“Hi, Kaide!”

Whenever we happened to meet—whether on the street, in the hallway, or near a tenant’s door—Adams always greeted me first.

“Hi, Adams!” I would reply with a smile.

One afternoon he approached me while holding a medium-sized package.

“Kaide, the tenant in Room 305—Anna—is not here today,” he said. “Could you keep this package for her?”

I knew that during the lockdown many tenants were working from home or had temporarily left the city.

Adams could have taken the package back to his truck. He could also have left it in the lobby near the mailboxes, as some delivery workers did.

But he didn’t want to do that.

He took his job seriously.

“Sure,” I told him, taking the package from his hands. “I’ll keep it in the office. When Anna comes back, I’ll give it to her.”

“Thanks,” Adams said.

Standing next to him, I suddenly noticed something.

“Adams,” I asked, “why aren’t you wearing a mask?”

By then the pandemic in New York had already become extremely serious. Seeing him working without a mask made me anxious.

“Why should I wear one?” Adams asked, looking genuinely puzzled.

“A mask protects you from the virus,” I explained. “It prevents infection through the respiratory system.”

He stared at me for a moment.

“Oh, so that’s why you’re always wearing one,” he said with a half-smile. “Do you really think it works?”

“Of course it does,” I said firmly. “Even when I take the subway to work, wearing a mask reduces the risk.”

Adams shook his head.

“The CDC hasn’t told us to wear masks,” he said confidently. “They said only sick people and medical workers need them. I’m not sick.”

I didn’t argue with him.

After all, I wasn’t a medical expert, and I certainly couldn’t claim that the Centers for Disease Control were wrong.

So I changed the subject.

“Are you guys still working normal hours?” I asked.

“Of course,” he replied. “We’re essential workers.”

“Do you get any hazard pay?” I asked curiously.

“Hazard pay?” he repeated, as if he had never heard the term.

“For working during the pandemic,” I explained. “Some people say essential workers should receive extra compensation because of the risk.”

Adams laughed.

“We’re not doctors,” he said.

“Well… it’s still a risky job,” I insisted.

Then he grinned and asked, “Do you get hazard pay?”

I laughed awkwardly.

“No,” I admitted. “I only work two days a week now.”

Adams shrugged.

“I don’t know anything about that,” he said. “I just do my job.”

Then he grabbed his cart and headed toward the door.

Outside, the rain had suddenly returned.

Without hesitation, Adams stepped straight into the storm. He wasn’t wearing a raincoat or carrying an umbrella. Within seconds his uniform was completely soaked.

But he kept walking toward his truck.

Every morning when I arrived at work, Adams was already there, moving between buildings with his cart full of packages.

And when I finished work in the evening, he was often still delivering.

Sometimes I wondered how he managed it.

His truck was not a small vehicle. It was the familiar delivery truck often seen on city streets—over twenty feet long, with a cargo area taller than a person.

Adams worked alone.

Driver.

Loader.

Delivery man.

All in one.

Each day he had to deliver two entire truckloads of packages—boxes of all sizes stacked to the ceiling.

To finish the route, he had to work at least twelve hours a day.

During the pandemic, the number of deliveries increased dramatically.

The only advantage was that the streets were less crowded, making it easier for him to drive and park.

Then one day something surprised me.

Adams was wearing a mask.

I could hardly believe my eyes.

“Adams,” I asked, “what made you start wearing a mask?”

He laughed awkwardly.

“The governor of New York and the CDC told us to,” he said. “Now it’s the law.”

“That’s good,” I replied. “Wearing a mask will help protect you.”

But inside my heart, my feelings were complicated.

At that time, nearly 100,000 people in the United States had already died from the virus. Yet politicians were still arguing about whether masks were necessary.

What should have been a scientific issue had become a political debate.

One day I asked him another question.

“Adams, do you ever get tired?”

He grinned mischievously.

“Kaide, do you get tired?”

I laughed.

“Not really.”

“Me neither,” he said. “The only problem is that wearing a mask all day makes it hard to breathe.”

He spoke with a bitter smile.

I noticed that his mask often slipped below his nose.

I wanted to tell him that wasn’t the correct way to wear it.

But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

We simply looked at each other and laughed.

For a moment the laughter filled the hallway.

But inside my heart, a quiet sadness slowly spread.