The streets were empty, as usual, on a recent beautiful spring day in Harrisburg.
Like many of you, I’ve been watching more Netflix than usual lately.
Searching for something new, I actually clicked on something old—very old—the original “Twilight Zone” TV series. I hadn’t seen an episode in a gazillion years and wondered what I would think now, at this age. Would it be as good as I vaguely remembered, or would it seem hokey and dated?
Turns out—it was even better than my recollection.
I started, logically, with episode one, from 1959, titled, “Where Is Everybody?”
The scene opens with a young man walking down a road alone. He comes upon a town and, hungry, goes into a diner looking for something to eat. He calls out for service, but no one is there. Then, increasingly agitated, he ventures from building to building, only to find more of the same. The infrastructure is all in place—the streets, the sidewalks, the school, the theater, the pharmacy—but not a soul is to be found.
And that’s when it hit me: Harrisburg.
Over the past month, I’ve ventured from one empty place to the next, and my thought has been exactly that: “Where is everybody?” In my case, that’s a rhetorical question, since I know where everyone is. They’re at home, awaiting the day when this affliction passes us, because, someday, presumably, it will.
And when that day blissfully arrives, what will Harrisburg look like? When we all emerge from our houses, step into the fresh air and shield our eyes from the blinding sun, will we still have the theater and the diner and the restaurant?
I’m not sure we will. And that’s why I offer a bold suggestion.
This week, people have begun receiving their federal stimulus money, which, for most adults, amounts to $1,200. Now, many people need these funds desperately. It’s a lifeline for them and will help pay for the basics of life: rent, mortgage, food, utilities, etc. And, unfortunately, it won’t last long either.
But others may not need it at all. Maybe they’ve been able to retain well-paying jobs, or perhaps they’re financially comfortable.
Therefore, I would like to suggest that those who can commit half of their stimulus checks to making sure that, after this crisis is over, Harrisburg no longer looks like, as the old saying goes, “something out of ‘The Twilight Zone.’”
Buy a gift card, a membership, some delicious takeout. Donate to your favorite nonprofit or arts group. Purchase something online from a local shop. Spread the wealth around to the extent you can. And, after you’re done, heck, you’ll still have another $600 in the bank.
According to Gov. Tom Wolf, the state is beginning to think about how we’re going to emerge from this thing. They’re pondering how and when can we open again as a society and as an economy.
When we do, we have to ensure that it’s not already too late. We need to be able to turn the key and put our streets, our sidewalks, our markets, our restaurants, our shops back into motion.
In the “Twilight Zone” episode I watched, the character, at one point, enters an empty pharmacy and spies a bookrack, but every book only has one title, “The Last Man on Earth.” At times, wandering around this city, doing my “essential” job, that’s exactly how I’ve felt–like the last man in a city, isolated, helpless.
Certainly, I hope that my own contribution will help our community awaken from its months-long slumber. But I expect it’ll also help me personally–empowered, no longer helpless, able to contribute.
If you can, I hope you’ll also see the value in ensuring that, when we come back, there’s a place to come back to, buildings no longer empty and dormant but filled with people, food, drink, art, activity and delight.
As “Twilight Zone” creator Rod Serling himself might say, emerging from the shadows and looking directly into the eye of the camera: “The cause? Our shared fate.”
