My Funny Quarantine Read online

  My Funny Quarantine

  Rachel Abugov

  Rachel's Kissing Books

  Copyright © 2020 Rachel Abugov (Rachel's Kissing Books)

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN:

  Paperback: 978-1-9991871-9-4

  E-Book: 978-1-9991871-8-7

  Cover design by Pro_ebookcovers

  Preface

  Yes, this is a quarantine book. It's a kissing book set in a pandemic. A rom-com, to be exact.

  I started to write a short story as a way to process my feelings about the pandemic, and before long, my short story was turning into a novel.

  I hope that the hero and heroine, Mike and Freddie, make you laugh during this time of stress.

  Love,

  Rachel

  XOXO

  My Funny Quarantine

  By Rachel Abugov

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 1

  “Freddie, why were these girls squeaking at you in Target?”

  Mike grabbed his burger and took a large bite, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was losing so many of his toppings. Maybe they weren’t just falling randomly, thought Freddie as she watched a strand of caramelized onion hit Mike’s tray. Were the onions fleeing because of the overcrowded conditions underneath the bun? You’d expect the jalapenos would have been the ones to make a run for it. They were round and could roll away.

  “I have no clue what you’re talking about.” Freddie took one of her fries and swirled it in ketchup, then let it fall onto the paper placemat. She wasn’t supposed to even touch potatoes, or her next gig would be at Macy’s on Thanksgiving. That would be an even worse end to her career than anything. Almost.

  “I beg to differ.” Mike set his burger down on the wax paper and leaned forward. “You insisted that we had to go to Target because some influencer had a CC cream that you had to get before we headed back to Montreal. Then, a couple of mallrats squeaked at you. Loudly. You made a beeline for the cash and you never even looked for the CC cream. But you made such a stink about CC cream that now I know what it is. To be honest, I didn’t need to know about it.”

  “Fine.”

  If anyone needed the help of a manly moisturizer, Mike Moskowitz was the guy. Freddie was willing to bet that he’d never exfoliated in his life. She’d almost feel sorry for him, if he wasn’t such a douchenozzle. The sooner the so-called "date" was over, the better. Freddie could be home, or what passed for Casa Zanger these days, in under two hours. She could chill on the couch with Bubbie Rose, see if there was any Manischewitz left over from Passover and maybe convince her grandmother to tell her a few stories about the personal lives of the other people in the assisted living facility. Bubbie loved spilling the tea.

  The one thing she didn’t want to do was ever see Mike Moskowitz again. What kind of a catch was he anyway? A schoolteacher, and the grandson of Bubbie Rose’s BFF at the King Solomon Residence. Not exactly her usual type, by which Freddie meant athletes, upper tier celebs and maybe the occasional musician.

  His grandmother, Nana Frances, was a sweetheart of a lady, and she never had a problem if Freddie wasn’t using her indoor voice because she usually left her hearing aids in her room. And it was very endearing that she insisted on having Freddie call her “Nana”. But there were limits to how far Freddie was prepared to go to please Nana Frances, and she had reached them.

  Go on a date, they said. It would be fun, they said. That wasn’t even a current meme, but it still applied. Freddie and Mike had agreed to get together for a one-shot people-pleasing afternoon. Not an evening, because those were for real dates. Definitely not a Saturday night, because Freddie hadn’t fallen that far.

  When Mike mentioned he had to pick up a package at Champlain, Freddie had seized on the chance to do some cross-border shopping. A drive, a few stops, maybe a snack. Done and dusted. And Mike would get his precious package, the one he kept yammering about.

  There was nothing especially interesting about Mike’s package. Not that package, although Freddie hadn’t really bothered to check it out. No, the items picked up at the border crossing were just a bunch of books. History books, to be precise. Mike didn’t even teach history, and Freddie couldn’t understand why he needed to read about the past when he could be living in the present and looking forward to the future. That was the only way to live.

  And now, she was stuck at a Five Guys in Plattsburgh, where the people had no shopping options other than Walmart, there was no food scene to speak of, and she’d been outed – again - for being the weasel that came between Kristie Caplansky and her boyfriend, Marc-Andre Hurtubise.

  That’s what the Caplansky stans were calling her. A weasel. All she had done was given Marc-Andre one tiny little kiss, but it was caught on camera and it went viral, as disasters tend to do. That was enough for Freddie to lose her best friend, lose her job as her best friend’s assistant and lose her immigration status, which was tied to her job. She had no choice but to either a) find some loser American and marry him ASAP or b) high tail it back to Montreal to set up housekeeping with Bubbie Rose in an assisted living facility.

  The first one was obviously not an option. All Freddie could find on the dating site were a bunch of guys named Earl who liked to show off their dad-bods standing in rowboats holding fish they’d presumably caught. Dead-Fish Earl was not an option. Freddie didn’t know how to swim and she was afraid of worms. To be fair, she’d only seen one guy’s profile but when she’d seen one, she’d seen ‘em all.

  Thank goodness for Plan B. Bubbie Rose had the splashiest apartment in the King Solomon, paid for Freddie’s meals in the fancier of the two dining rooms, and didn’t insist that she participate in all the fun activities because they weren’t so much fun for people of her age. Bingo was painful, but the weekly shopping trip wasn’t so bad, if you didn’t mind going to Dollarama. But how many tchotchkes did a person need once you were over 80? It was just that much more stuff for the kids to clean out when the inevitable happened. There had been a scandal on the fifth floor when Mr. Feldman’s grandkids discovered his collection of porn DVDs. Since Mr. Feldman didn’t even have a DVD player, Freddie wondered about their usefulness. Oh well. Not her problem.

  Mike was obviously a member of the Clean Plate Club. He’d polished off his burger, his fries and was about to head to the fancy soda machine for another refill of who-knew-what. Freddie was past caring. All she wanted to do was to get back, end this “date” on a friendly note so as not to alienate anyone, and to go online to check in with the people who mattered – her remaining fans and a few select influencers.

  They gassed up, got extra-large coffees, and headed for the border. There was not much of a line at Lacolle, which was surprising. But it wasn’t until they got to the booth that they realized why.

  “You do understand that you have to quarantine for two weeks when you get back to Montreal, correct?” The border guard
was giving that fake-solicitous head-lowered look. Never a good thing.

  “Two weeks? Really? When did this come in?” Mike reached over and took their passports back from the border guard’s gloved hands. The guard squirted her hands with sanitizer and rubbed them together. Clearly the government was trying to save a few dollars.

  “You didn’t hear the news? Were you in Plattsburgh or in outer space?” Even with her surgical mask, the guard’s raised eyebrows communicated surprise. “The borders are closing. There’s a lockdown. Here’s a depliant with the protocol to follow. We have your license number, so we’ll be tracking you. Have a nice day.”

  That was the signal for Mike to pull away. “Can you read me the instructions, Freddie?”

  “Sure. No leaving the house for any reason for two weeks. No stops on the way home. There’s the phone number for the hotline, and the website. And there’s a list of symptoms. Can you pull in here?” She waved towards a gas station. “I have to pee.”

  “I think that qualifies as a stop,” said Mike, trying to decide whether he’d rather deal with kvetching because Freddie’s bladder was full or paying the fine if they were busted. “It won’t be long before I drop you off.” He was thinking that it wouldn’t be a moment too soon. Why did Nana think he’d ever be interested in someone so vapid and self-engrossed? How many times had she commandeered the rear-view mirror while he was driving so she could check on her makeup?

  Finally, finally, they crossed the Jacques Cartier Bridge into Montreal. Cote St. Luc was, what? Fifteen minutes away? Then he could get back to his beloved Mile End condo and enjoy two weeks of silence. It sounded like heaven.

  What the hell? There was a security guard stationed outside the King Solomon Residence. The guard wasn’t holding a squirt bottle of hand sani, so he wasn’t the welcoming committee. This was not a good sign.

  “Oh, no. I hope there haven’t been any anti-Semitic incidents,” said Freddie. She’d listened to enough Holocaust stories from Bubbie Rose to realize that an increased police presence could be triggering for survivors.

  She leapt out of the car without even a perfunctory thank you to Mike, ran over to the guard and held her hands out so she could be squirted with disinfectant and get upstairs ASAP.

  “No entry,” said the guard without even as much as a ‘sorry’. “The government put the order in place for all residences. They’re a vulnerable population.”

  “What about the homeless? Are they also vulnerable? Because I was staying there with my bubbie, and now I’m homeless.”

  The guard’s expression was a mask of sternness. Or was it the actual medical-grade mask that he was wearing? Either way, it was no good.

  “Fine. I’ll go to a hotel.” Freddie stomped back to the car. Thank goodness Mike hadn’t driven off. Was he being a gentleman, or was it because she’d left her purse and her bag of Oreos in the car? Either way, desperate times needed desperate measures.

  With a sigh, Freddie edged into the car.

  “What’s wrong? You look like things are getting worse.”

  “Maybe because they are,” she snapped. “They won’t let me in. Now I have nowhere to go.” Freddie reached for her phone. “I have to check into a hotel because they won’t let people in from the outside.”

  Mike cut the motor. No point in wasting gas, even if he’d filled up on the other side of the border, where the prices were much lower. “How’s it going,” he asked after several minutes of watching his date alternate between texting and cursing. She may not have been the most well-read person he’d ever met, but Freddie had a veritable lexicon of curse words at her disposal.

  “Nobody will take me because they don’t want people quarantining,” she said after a few long minutes. “Let’s drive, and maybe I can find something.”

  Mike headed for St.-Jacques, which as every Montrealer knew, had several no-tell motels. Surely one of them would have a vacancy, but by the time they’d reached the Vendome Metro station, it was clear that there was only one course of action.

  “I think the hotels are off the list. Wanna try Chez Manon?”

  “What’s that? Is that a bed-and-breakfast?”

  “In a way. Yeah.”

  Freddie was looking it up on her phone. The shit would hit the fan in 5… 4… 3… 2...

  “It’s a shelter, Mike! You’re trying to send me to a shelter to shelter for two weeks? Are you out of your mind? No, wait, that question doesn’t even need an answer. You are a hateful, hateful person and I hate you. Because you’re hateful.”

  “Well, there’s only one other option,” said Mike. “You can come home with me.”

  Suddenly, Chez Manon wasn’t sounding that bad.

  “Are you kidding me? I don’t want to spend five minutes with you, let alone two weeks. Maybe there’s a more upscale shelter we can call.” Freddie was sure the words “upscale” and ‘shelter’ had never been used in the same sentence before. Maybe this was her way of being an influencer.

  “I just had a brilliant idea,” she said, rapidly scrolling through her contact list. “I have a friend who lives in Montreal. I’m sure he has room for me. I’m going to put this on speaker, so you can hear how happy some people are to spend time with me.”

  Mike wasn’t what he would call a religious person, but he was praying that the friend, whoever he was, would be able to come to Freddie’s rescue. This would require a commemorative gesture of some kind. Maybe planting a tree in the guy’s honour would be cool. No, even better - after he was out of self-isolation, Mike would bake the friend a loaf of his famous artisanal bread, along with a batch of Guinness beef stew. Peeling the pearl onions, as annoying a task as it was, would be a pleasure if only to thank his benefactor.

  Freddie was triumphant as she hit the touchscreen on her phone. The phone rang once, then went straight to voicemail. She tried it again. Same result.

  “I think you’ve been blocked,” said Mike. He took the phone and looked at it. “The Big Hurt? You know Marc-Andre Hurtubise? Last thing I heard, he’d been caught on camera playing tonsil hockey with some skank – “

  “Skank? Is that what you think of me? Well, you can drop me off right here and drive away in your ancient, smelly Toyota and go to – actually, you can go to hell. I’m not a skank, and we were both drunk, and everybody should stop squeaking at me because I’m not a weasel. You got that?”

  “Uhmm, yeah.” Mike pulled over to the curb. “The Metro’s shut down, but you may be able to grab a night bus. Here’s the app. You can check.”

  “What? You’re gonna abandon me?” Freddie choked back a sob, then checked the mirror to make sure her contouring was intact.

  “For the nine-hundredth time, Please. Don’t. Touch. The. Mirror,” said Mike. “In case you’ve forgotten, I offered for you to stay with me. I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for my grandmother. She’d be appalled if I left you like the Orphan of the Storm. That’s one of her favourite expressions from back in the day. It was their version of a meme. The offer stands, despite my better judgement. I’m not gonna abandon you in your time of need.”

  By now, Freddie’s sobs had turned into full-throttle wailing. “I love Nana Frances,” she said between gulps. “She’s the best. I won’t be any trouble. I promise.”

  “We’ll see,” said Mike darkly. “Don’t touch the mirror. And don’t touch your face, for crying out loud. Didn’t you read the pamphlet?”

  What had he gotten himself into? This was going to be the longest two weeks of his life.

  Chapter 2

  Mike’s condo was tucked away on a side street near the corner of Avenue du Parc and Beaubien. He had visited every unit on the market with his increasingly impatient real estate agent, from the converted factories on Jean-Talon to the sleek apartments on Bates Road, until he finally settled on his place. The location was perfect. He could walk to Cheskie’s Bakery when he craved babka or go to Jean-Talon Market and get artisanal sausages for dinner. He preferred to walk when running errand
s unless he had to go to Costco. Driving was an activity in and of itself, not part of his everyday lifestyle. He even used public transit to commute to work, so he could enjoy some reading time before facing the kids. Assuming school hadn’t been cancelled because of COVID-19.

  Here’s how Mike imagined the next day playing out: Freddie would sleep in really late, allowing Mike time to prepare his lessons for the day and have a Zoom class with his students. Then, she’d take a quick shower and retreat back to the alcove to hibernate, emerging only to use the bathroom and help clean up the apartment.

  Freddie’s vision of the Perfect Day was a little different. She’d thank Mike again for giving her the master bedroom, then she’d pour herself a glass of wine and enjoy the soaker tub in the ensuite, cranking up the music as loud as she needed to in order to create the perfect environment. There would be little if any interaction together, which would be the best-case scenario. If not, Freddie would just have to go full-throttle diva.

  That wasn’t a problem. In fact, it was her default mode. She’d terrorized the cafeteria lady at the King Solomon until she got a salad every day, dressing on the side. That was off-menu and they had to get organic mixed greens just for her. That was then, and actually, that was also now, because everything had changed and she had to retrain her staff.

  “So, here’s where you’ll be sleeping.” Freddie had hardly noticed that Mike was speaking in her attempts to scope out the ensuite. He was motioning towards the couch. What the hell? How was it considered appropriate for a guest to be given the couch? Was she some sort of indigent who had to settle for crumbs?

  “I thought I’d have a closed bedroom,” she said as mildly as possible.

  “Well, there’s only one closed bedroom. Maybe you’d rather have the alcove.” Mike started walking towards the other end of the apartment. Against her better judgement, Freddie looked at her unwilling host. Damn, he looked good in those jeans. She would have to pretend she never saw that if she was going to make the arrangement work. Freddie followed Mike as he led her to an alcove which held a desk, an office chair, piles of books and camping equipment. There wasn’t a bed, as far as she could tell.