Two

Two
months ago, “zoom” was merely a verb often used in
conjunction with cars. Yet as we’ve settled into lockdown, Zoom
with a capital Z has become a societal crutch and spawned a network
of virtual personalities. Consider yourself a Quaranqueen or a
Floating Scalp? Read on to find out.

Keep your eyes peeled for SUITCASE’s Zoom backgrounds, too –
epic scenery pulled directly from the pages of our print archives.
Coming soon to a monitor near you.

Which of these eight video-cam personality types are you?

The Scandi

Everything about your on-screen aesthetic is so clinically
pared-back that you resemble an Apple product yourself: you have
become one with the MacBook. We’d try and strike up a conversation
– anything, ANYTHING – to distract from the banality of life in
Gilead, but we really would be pulling at straws. When it comes to
shelfies, you make the Duchess of Cambridge look like Matilda
Wormwood. Not only is your bookshelf more desolate than
Namibia’s Skeleton Coast, everything on and around it is
varying shades of gröt – that’s oatmeal in Swedish.

The Audacity

That punk who is always slightly out of breath, unflatteringly
upshot and constantly juggling their iPhone and a coffee porta-cup.
You’re allowed to take one form of exercise per day, but like a
beady-eyed neighbourhood watchman peeping through net curtains – or
a Karen (refer to TikTok) – we’ve spied you lapping that local park
in two separate video calls. “We can’t hear you: could you lower
the plastic window on your hazmat suit please?”

The Hermit

You haven’t moved since the first serving of bat soup in Wuhan.
As for your diet? Hello Fresh, Crop Drop, Pasta Evangelists – name
a delivery
box, you’ve had it. The cardboard carcasses of care packages
past rise up behind you like a poor man’s Canary Wharf – which is
ironic as you’re in bed, always. You might have mild asthma but
you’ve already tested negative for COVID-19: get up and stop
responding to all of our messages telling you to do so with
#StayHome.

The Professor

You’re like Robert Kelly, that political analyst who went viral
in 2017, but Zoom-enabled. Any nerd kudos gleaned from changing
your background to the FTSE100 ticker is routinely lost each time
your adorable little sprog bumbles into your background, top
right-hand corner. Conversation is always a Quick, Draw! away from
veering into a sermon on the Strauss-Howe generational theory,
which goes some way in explaining why so many of your conversants’
laptops keep randomly zonking out. Probably called Steve or June or
Anneliese Dodds – no offence to exceptionally fun guardians of the
same name.

The Quaranqueen

Blessings be upon you, marshal of the neighbourhood WhatsApp
groups and wingèd courier of the sick and needy. You’ve finally
found what you’re good at: quarantine. Your screen is a diplomatic
portrait of a Quaranqueen: a steaming hand-made mug as your orb and
a tightly-rolled yoga
mat as your sceptre. Plain flour glows about you like holy
incense – an auratic brilliance only afforded to those who are,
like you, feeding the five thousand (NHS key workers) with loaf
after loaf of vegan banana bread.

The _____________

“Could you please turn your camera on?” Your camera isn’t
broken. It’s the “my dog ate my homework” of 2020. Nobody’s buying
it, but good on you for trying.

The Sims

Either it’s a Korean face mask, a glitch or you’re transhuman.
You didn’t look like this before self-isolation: you have the kind
of skin only achieved by Silicon Valley programmers and you wear
the same non-branded, uncrumpled clothes every day. Suspicious.
Have you installed a coronavirus expansion pack? Where can we buy
one? More to the point, what will become of you in 12 weeks time?
And no, “wa flee boh za woka genava,” is not an adequate
answer.

The Floating Scalp

You make a strong case for technological illiteracy to be listed
as a public health hazard. First, you were
gate-crashing Houseparties, then you kicked up a viral storm on
Instagram Live, not before involuntarily screen-sharing on Zoom. We
pray each night that this reckless streak of self-sabotage will
end, but each morning brings horrors anew. It’s deeply upsetting,
actually. Please seek professional help.