Free beer, weird costumes: These Philadelphians are spreading cheer in dark times

It’s humbling to be officially deemed “nonessential” — but it’s an experience that thousands across Philadelphia now share, helplessly watching the mounting toll of COVID-19 and the economic fallout of stay-at-home orders.

So when there’s a chance to shine a light in the darkness, people are stepping up with whatever tools are at their disposal: sending meals to hospital workers, fulfilling nurses’ pleas for home-sewn masks, and covering the blight of closed storefronts with crowd-sourced art.

Then there are efforts that are a little more idiosyncratic. Those who are feeling at a loss to help defeat the pandemic are at least finding ways to kill the boredom and share the love. Here’s some of what they’ve come up with.

On Tuesday afternoon, Mike Hans pulled up alongside a Southwest Philadelphia rowhouse, popped the trunk of his car, and revealed his precious cache: a cooler full of ice and cold craft beers. He pulled out a can of Yards Pale Ale, dunked it into a bin of soapy water, then put the dripping can into a Ziploc baggie, with a few ice cubes.

“The world needs heroes right now,” he said. “I’m not a hero. But I do have some beer.”

Until March, the South Philadelphia resident had worked four jobs, including as the tour manager at Yards Brewing Co. Now almost all of that work is gone — even Lyft has no riders — but Yards is still providing his monthly beer stipend of two cases per month. So Hans started the “I could really use a beer” campaign, to deliver a free beer to anyone who asks for one.

Making the Facebook event was easy (though Hans immediately ran into doubters who assumed it was a hoax), but the logistics have proved complicated. He makes a spreadsheet of addresses each Tuesday morning before embarking on his route. He needs to check IDs, so he asks people to set them down on their front steps and back away. He does the same maneuver to pass them the beer, then urges customers to wash their hands and rinse their beer cans.

Jamie Graham, a social worker who had been conducting home visits via Zoom, stepped onto his porch in peak work-from-home fashion — button-down shirt and blazer on top, rumpled pajama pants on the bottom. The corners of a smile showed behind his mask.

“I figure it’s the only time someone will hand me a cold beer during this quarantine,” he said.

Like many extroverts, Aaron Talasnik is having a particularly hard time with isolation. He lost his income and his pastimes, including kickball leagues, concerts, and sporting events. Even visiting his family in New Jersey is out, since using public transportation no longer feels prudent.

One of the small pleasures that remains for the Graduate Hospital resident is taking his dog, a rescue named Charlie, out for walks. So he decided to make the most of it, donning a new costume each day since April 1: a pink bunny outfit one day, the Hungry, Hungry Caterpillar another.

“I’ve gotten smiles and laughs," he said. "I’ve gotten people to shake their heads. It doesn’t matter to me. If they’re doing one of those things, they’re distracted from what we’re living in right now.”

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Recently, people started posting photos of him on social media, texting with offers to drop off costumes for his next walk. Someone posted that he was a hero. “I said, I’m just your normal neighborhood idiot. There’s not much else I can do. I’m not a doctor, I’m not delivering packages.”

Lauren Rinaldi had a similar impulse. When the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention came out with its recommendation that all Americans wear masks while in public, she figured she had it covered.

She pulled out a Gritty mask she’d made for her son last Halloween. She added a flowing red prom dress. Then, “I said to my husband, ‘What are you going to wear on our walk tonight?’” A beaked plague-doctor mask that someone had anonymously mailed to them, plus a cape swiped from their costume collection, felt like the obvious answer. “Some people were taking pictures,” she said. “Others weren’t really amused, so I just waved like a prom queen and kept walking.”

Donna Oblongata, a Southwest Philadelphia theater artist, had a busy year planned: teaching a seven-week clown workshop, a tour of her solo show, then a prestigious artist residency this summer. Then, like everyone else, she found herself stuck at home.

So, with Brooklyn-based collaborator Patrick Costello, she decided to start a series of online events she’s billed as “interactive reality TV”: a quarantine remake of The Dating Game that’s about to launch, and a Great British Baking Show takeoff that has about 10 contestants each week preparing recipes that play off themes like “Let Them Eat Cake” and “Eat the Rich.”

Some have costumes and personas, illusions easily interrupted when a roommate wanders through to heat up a can of soup. One even built a tabletop guillotine.

“Not to be glib, but it’s a lot easier to get people on board for a frivolous art project that doesn’t make money when everyone is sitting home looking for things to do,” she said. “At a time when things are really hard, and people are struggling emotionally, psychically, and financially, it feels like I’m doing something that’s a kind of service.”