We often speak of COVID-19 in the past tense. The masks have come off, the Plexiglas dividers are gone, and the nightly case trackers have vanished from our screens. But the virus, less in its biological form than its cultural and economic residue, never really left. Its fingerprints are all over how we live, eat, and work. And the strangest part? Many of us hardly notice anymore.
Take a walk downtown in any mid-sized American city around 8:30 P.M. on a Tuesday. You’ll see it. The restaurants are dark. The neon signs are dim. Kitchens that once bustled until midnight now flick off their stoves by nine, if they’re open at all.
Increasingly, diners find locked doors on Tuesdays or Wednesdays, with small placards explaining “New Hours Due to Staffing” or the more typical “Closed Tuesdays.”
It’s tempting to blame labor shortages or inflation. Both are real. But behind them lies a broader, quieter shift, a cultural transformation catalyzed by the pandemic and cemented by inertia. Much of that has eroded the hustle, the grind, the after-hours dining, and lingering conversations over a second glass of wine.
And it’s not just restaurants. America’s downtowns, once the heartbeat of business and commerce, are hollowing out.
This is not a red-state or blue-state problem. The virus didn’t ask about party affiliation when it changed how we live. Both political parties spent, scrambled, and stumbled through the early stages of COVID-19, each spinning its response as leadership while quietly punting the deeper consequences down the road. In many cities, that road now runs past a series of vacant office towers.
A recent National Bureau of Economic Research study found that office attendance in major urban centers remains down over 40% from pre-pandemic levels. Remote work, initially a stopgap, became a lifestyle. Hybrid work is now the norm for many white-collar jobs, and although it offers flexibility, it also delivers a slow bleed to the urban economy. The companies that once filled 20 floors of a high-rise are now leasing half of one or none.
And cities are paying the price.
Fewer office workers mean fewer lunches bought, fewer dry cleaning runs, fewer happy hours, fewer subway fares, and fewer tax dollars. Cities like San Francisco and Chicago are staring down budget shortfalls and contemplating service cuts. Smaller cities with less diversified economies are faring worse. Once designed around density and foot traffic, downtowns now resemble ghost towns by 6 P.M.
The commercial real estate market is groaning under the weight of it. Office vacancy rates in the U.S. hit a record 19.6% in late 2023, and the consequences are rippling. Property taxes from office buildings make up a significant revenue stream for many municipalities. When those buildings sit empty or depreciate, cities lose income. That means potholes go unfilled, bus routes are cut, police and fire departments see reduced budgets, and residents feel the decline.
We’re living through a slow-motion crisis that doesn’t make headlines because it doesn’t explode; it seeps.
This isn’t about nostalgia. It’s not about forcing everyone back to fluorescent-lit cubicles for the sake of tradition. Remote work is here to stay, and it’s a step forward — especially for working parents, people with disabilities, and those in rural areas. But we’ve yet to grapple with the collateral damage of that shift. We’ve optimized our calendars but devalued our communities.
And the strangest part? No one seems to steer the ship.
Business leaders beg workers to come back yet offer a few compelling reasons. City councils debate zoning tweaks while watching their downtown cores lose vitality. Federal relief propped up the economy during the emergency, but now we’re in a fog, post-pandemic in name only.
Restaurants are bellwethers. They reflect foot traffic, confidence, disposable income, and community rhythm. Their early closings and midweek shutdowns speak volumes about what’s missing. We’ve adapted to a new quiet, born of not fear, but fatigue.
A century ago, Winston Churchill warned, “To each, there comes in their lifetime a special moment when they are figuratively tapped on the shoulder and offered the chance to do something unique to their talents.” COVID-19 tapped us all. And instead of using the moment to rethink how cities work or reinvest in communal life, we’re watching the gears grind slower.
Maybe it’s time to ask: What kind of society are we becoming when the lights go out early, corner offices turn into storage closets, and vibrant city blocks become tax liabilities?
This column is not a eulogy for the old way of life or a lament that we should all “go back to normal.” The pandemic revealed cracks in our systems — some worth filling, some worth abandoning entirely. But what’s alarming is our collective shrug. Our left and right leaders appear content to tread water while communities slowly sink under the weight of vacancies, silence, and lost momentum.
There’s still time to course-correct. Cities can repurpose empty office buildings into housing. Restaurants can be supported through smarter zoning and tax breaks. Perhaps a national conversation could begin, asking not how to return to 2019, but how to rebuild with intention in 2025.
But first, we must acknowledge the truth: COVID didn’t just change us — it’s still changing us. And pretending otherwise is the most dangerous denial of all.
David Manney is a writer and thinker passionate about truth, clarity, and challenging systems that fail those they claim to serve. He brings a sharp eye, a steady voice, and a deep sense of purpose to everything he creates.
Image via Picryl.
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