“Where Is Everybody Redux?”

“Where Is Everbody Redux?”

By

Leo de Natale

I was parked in downtown Boston on a beautiful May afternoon. My wife had an ophthalmology appointment. I drove to the office near the city’s Government Center. Our dog, Kaiser, an aging German Shepherd Dog, came along for the ride.

       In the midst of this Covid-19 crisis, I sat in the car, windows open, but not wearing the ubiquitous mask (I wear it when walking).  Kaiser and I sat and waited.  It was a 1 pm appointment but office visits usually last about two hours, most of which is spent in a waiting room.

With the windows down I observed a significantly reduced number of pedestrians. Two panhandlers walked near my car. “Can you spare some change?” asked an obese, unmasked street person. Shook my head, sorry, not today was my terse response. Nearly all passersby were wearing masks of various design and fabric. It was a scene that had become the norm after nine weeks of worldwide panic and shutdown.

City traffic was lessened, too. I rarely find a parking spot on this busy thoroughfare. Fewer people, fewer cars. A palpable tension could be seen in body language and in people’s eyes. Kaiser, of course, merely stuck his snout out a window and enjoyed the sights and scents. Unaware of the pandemic, he was very relaxed.

I was reading a Scandanavian noir thriller and suddenly my mind began wandering. The isolation and fear that had swept across the United States reminded me of The Twilight Zone, an iconic, classic sci/fi, paranormal show televised during the late 1950’s and early 60’s. In fact, it was the program’s first episode that came to mind. It was entitled “Where Is Everybody?” and starred actor Earl Holliman. I remember watching the program. I was a young teenager who was completely enthralled. The entire Twilight Zone series, filmed in black and white, left an indelible impression on me and millions of others.

       Holliman portrays Mike Ferris, a military man, who agrees to an experimental hypnotic assignment.  When he awakes, he finds himself in an apple-pie town of Oakwood, USA.  The day is similar to the one I was experiencing: warm, a slight wind, and blinding sunlight.

Holliman is bewildered. The town is similar to his hometown with a main drag, shops, parked cars and a diner. What bothers him is the absence of people, no human beings anywhere. He enters the Main Street diner. A juke box is blaring music, the grille is hot and a burger is on its way to being overcooked. The music is the only sounds he hears. He yells to see if any employees are present. No one. Just the blaring music.

Throughout the 30 minute program, Holliman becomes increasingly frantic.  He wanders through the city.  Not a soul in sight.  The show ends with Holliman in a telephone booth (they existed back then) punching the keys, trying to call someone.

       The climax immediately occurs. He is awakened by military hospital personnel.  They explain he’d been subjected to a drug causing sensory deprivation.  He certainly had experienced the phenomenon.

We have no knowledge of when our “normal” lives will return, when we can appreciate the interaction between and among human beings. Who knew 60-plus years ago Rod Serling would write a teleplay that in so many ways depicts what is happening to our country and the world? We all wander through this strange time asking “Where is everybody?”.

So here we are today, millions of Mike Ferris’s wandering around cities and towns. We are surrounded by other humans but for many of us the effect is eerily similar to the program. We maintain our six-foot personal space and we wear masks that hide the identity of those wearing them. People are, in a modified way, non-existent. Instead of wandering through Oakwood, many of us are in voluntary isolation. We stay home, talk to only spouses, children or roommates. We are told to avoid crowds, shopping centers and, like Mike Ferris, diners. We are all dealing with self-imposed isolation. Human interaction has been reduced to computer teleconferences.