A brief history of plague entertainment...
In the mid-14th century, an exquisitely fatal plague, the Black Death, swept across the European continent. The disease ran its course to mortality so swiftly among those inflicted, I am surprised it is not the origin of the phrase “to drop dead.” As with COVID-19, the Black Death originated in Asia and Italy suffered worse than its neighbors. During this time, Italian writer Giovanni Boccaccio (1313-1375) wrote The Decameron, a collection of a hundred stories of virtue and vice that would serve as a partial Pangea for the modern literary landscape. The plot is one of which we are now all too familiar: a group of ten young Florentines (seven women and three men) agree to retreat to a country estate during the height of panic and contagion in the city. A “social distancing,” medieval Florentine-style. The group decides to establish a routine to preserve sanity during the two weeks of their quarantine. This includes the daily storytelling of each individual on a subject to be decided by whomever leads that day. The result is ten stories over ten days in the two weeks they spend together; four of the days are set aside for prayer and personal days because even medieval folk—maybe, especially, medieval folk—need to practice some spiritual mindfulness and self-care.
As an aside that may be interesting only to me, Boccaccio would go on to write Il Corbaccio, “The Crow,” a piece that is titled similarly to my last name and whose premise, to expose the wickedness of women, is dear to my own plight as a wicked woman who needs greater exposure.
So as the bedazzled and bedraggled beast that is my city of Los Angeles lumbers to a halt, I am reminded of The Decameron, not only in its correlation to our current situation but for the frame of its plot as a way to pleasantly pass the time in the masked face of a pandemic. I have to date been passing the time in ways that are somewhat Decameronian: catching up on work, preparing elaborate dinners, chores, watching baby otters groom themselves on the internet, more chores, reconnecting with old friends and colleagues, reading, working out, chores so superfluous they can hardly be considered chores and triumphantly reaching the finish line of Netflix. These kinds of activities were helpful, but now Mother Nature has put her Hollywood twist on the city’s quarantine with the “meet-cute” of atypical stormy weather and pandemic anxiety. The rain does strange things to Angelenos. Alone it puts the city in a mild quarantine. Now add actual quarantine and a city formerly known and occasionally despised for its beachy come-what-may attitude is fast devolving into the Thunderdome. Dorothy Parker once described Los Angeles as “seventy-two suburbs in search of a city.” We are now “seventy-two suburbs in search of a roll of toilet paper.” Fistfights in Costcos, kale-less farmer’s markets, Bikram yoga studios shivering in desolation, empty In-and-Outs and a #nofilter slapped on every face that misses a Botox appointment and every crotch missing a wax. End times, indeed.
Amid viral and meteorological quarantine, depression and crippling anxiety, I have decided to humbly revive The Decameron to amuse myself and hopefully a few readers. The writing here will be quick first drafts. In COVID-19 speak, this fiction HAS NOT been peer-reviewed. As such, don’t expect Boccaccio. I will post installments here as often as I can, keeping in mind the spirit of the source material while adjusting it to modern times. Medieval Florence meet 21st century Los Angeles. Black Death freely shake hands with COVID-19. Ten courtly Italians elbow-bump ten industry-types west of the 405. Stay safe and enjoy…
**This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.**
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