Worst-Case Scenario

• come celebrate
• with me that everyday
• something has tried to kill me
• and has failed.
• —“won’t you celebrate with me,” Lucille Clifton

Eight months after a breakup with my partner I found myself in bed, midafternoon. I was also in bed midevening, midmorning. Newly allowed in the bed, my dog lay beside me as I was on the season 2 finale of This Is Us. Beth and Randall, a charming married couple in the NBC melodrama, are playing a game called “Worst-Case Scenario.” The rules are simple: each person says “worst-case scenario,” followed by their fears of the worst possible direction their lives could take from that decision.

I had been warned about negativity as a child, from Philippians 4:8 in church, to a parent’s scold not to “think that way,” to videos of Michael Jordan training a summer camp of young athletes. “I never looked at the consequences of missing a big shot,” Michael Jordan once said. “When you think about the consequences, you always think of negative results.” Legendary athletes, lifestyle gurus, and motivational speakers are aligned on the power of positivity. The risk of negative thinking is that it courts the worst-case scenario—that the thought of it is only one step removed from conjuring its reality.

Yet here are Beth and Randall tempting fate with worse-case scenario, the TV drama equivalent to playing with a Ouija board in a horror film. Beth and Randall are asking for it.

I graduated college in the 2008 financial crisis, in what was called the unluckiest graduating class in modern history. I live in New York City during a global Coronavirus pandemic and the verge of the second economic recession of my adulthood. Two weeks ago, I heard the news that 6.5 million unemployment claims had been filed that week—an American record. There were 10 million total claims in the two weeks since the crisis started. Today the number is 22 million. I type my personal stakes to a friend:

If my job survives the whole thing: amazing
If I lose my job in 3 months: not ideal, but I'll manage
If I lose my job next month: fuck
If I lose my job next week: super fuck

I worried about a virus pandemic only rarely, about as much as I worried about an asteroid—both only prompted by movies. Someone must have ruined it for the rest of us. Dr. Ray Stantz couldn’t help but think of the Marshmallow Man, bringing the plagues to life. Didn’t anyone tell them? Negative ideation is a vindictive hunter, an existential Candyman.

Yesterday I watched Better Things. Sam was worried about her mercurial daughter, Frankie, who refuses to come home after weeks away. “I have a question for you,” Sam’s boyfriend says. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?” I expect Sam to spit on her finger 3 times to ward off the invocation, but even Sam, superstitious as she is, answers. “She could be out on the street. Be trafficked. Drugs. Murder.”

I think, why is she wishing that on her daughter?

Good things have happened in my life in some part because I thought of their happening, and so, in some part, I earned them. Equally, bad things happened because they were tempted, and so I influenced, even deserved, their happening.

Yet, we were homeless once as kids; my brother, my mom, and me stayed with a family friend. Education was the way out of poverty I was told, so I finished my education with four degrees that left me $120,000 in debt, with a job earning $40,000 a year. My dog died while I was in the Peace Corps. My partner and I broke up. But Beth and Randall are fine. Frankie came home. Even me, I’m still here. Today I received a short work email inviting us to a company meeting for an “important business update.” I know what it means. But today, I’m still here.

Years after a breakup I found myself in bed, midafternoon. In bed midevening, midmorning. My dog beside me, newly confident in belonging there. Now on season four of This Is Us, Beth and Randall find their children old enough to introduce them to the game they played.

Worst-case scenario, Beth projects her own insecurities onto her girls making them feel anything less than their wonderful, beautiful, wildly unique selves. Worst-case scenario, Randall never gets over himself and Deja has to live the next four years trapped in her room like Rapunzel. Worst-case scenario, an important company update adds to the 22 million claims for unemployment. Worst-case scenario, we’re on the verge of a second Great Depression and are on the path to Fury Road. Worst-case scenario, virus, disease, death, terrorism, signs of the times, wars and rumors of wars, re-election, murder, atrophy, scarcity, my new dog dies, Frankie never comes home, and Beth and Randall file for divorce. Worst-case scenario, MJ misses. Candyman, Candyman, Candyman, Candyman, Candyman, Candyman, Candyman.

But today, I’m still here.