01
August 20XX
My
Dear Lucilius:
My
pardon for the lateness of this missive – you will find by the time
stamp of this e-mail is late. But today was a day worth speaking to
you about now, in the event that there is anything else that you need
do as well.
I
left early for my monthly shopping trip a little earlier in the month
than I typical do, based on last month's experience – my standard
Big Box store opens at 0830 and I endeavor to be there as close to
the opening time as possible. The only compensation as I leave this
early is that the sky goes through all the transitions of the morning
as I am on my way. I arrived on time – early enough, in fact, to
start with my fuel purchases – only to find men and women with guns
there.
The
parking lot was already almost full – not just with the cars of
shoppers but with the trucks and vehicles of what I assume was the
National Guard, escorting traffic, directing people.
I
pulled into a line where I waited until I pulled up to a young man,
who requested my “Government Issued ID” and my card, both of
which he ran through scanner, then returned them with a perfunctory
“Thanks” and motioned me on, where I was directed into a parking
place and then again directed to what a growing line along the side
of the building, pegged out by cones and the occasional soldier –
with a gun.
The
mood of the line as I got into it was frightened, more than anything
else. The conversations were hushed, falling away as the men and
women in uniform walked up and down the line. We stood there for
twenty minutes or more, watching the parking lot slowly fill up and
the line increase.
Finally,
the doors on the main entrance rolled up. The crowd started to surge
– only to be pushed back by the soldiers. The line then very
slowly started moving – by the time I got up to the front I could
see why: again, present your ID and your card to a Big Box employee
who ran it through the computer while soldiers paced up and down the
back. Card and ID handed back, I was informed that I had thirty
minutes to shop, starting now. My spending limit was $150, based on
the fact that (according to the database) I was a single older man.
Go.
As
before, the signs were in place on virtually every item for
quantities of purchase– although to my mind, they were even more
restrictive than the last time I was here. Most things were only an
“each” purchase, which in my case made it a little more difficult
than usual to reach my “quota.”
The
shopping crowd was frenzied – and quiet. Employees stood quietly
to the side while more soldiers stood at almost every other
intersection, scanning the crowd. There was no conversation except
for muttered voices and the occasional apology when carts collided.
What
did I buy? Vitamins and Fish Oil A 25 lb bag of rice. A 10 lb box
of Oatmeal. A bag of craisins. Toothpaste. Dental Floss. Toilet
paper (definitely one each there). And perhaps against my better
judgment, a bag of coffee beans – because even if this was the end,
I intended to go out with coffee in hand.
The
food court, my last usual stop, was closed – I suppose to help
enforce the thirty minute time frame. Oddly enough, this is what
saddened me the most and perhaps more than anything else, brought the
entire alarming nature of the situation to reality – not only
because of the tradition, but because of the fact that I had many
happy family memories, once upon a time, of going out for hot dogs
and pizza as a “big deal” dinner. Those, like so many other
things, were suddenly gone.
The
line in front of the store was even longer when I left.
Securing
fuel was a similar exercise which I will not bore you with: Long
lines, ID checks, limited purchase amounts (I managed to fill up my
truck but again, no fuel cans).
And
suddenly it hit me: This might be the last time ever I came to a city
of this size for a very long time.
I
found an ATM for my banking consortium. Posed in a handmade sign
above the ATM and next to the entrance was sign that withdrawals were
limited that day. $200. I was early enough for not a long line,
but I still had to wait.
With
cash in hand, I went through the thought exercise I had often done
many times: What would I buy if I only had one more trip into town?
Now, I had to work that exercise out.
The
first grocery store I was able to locate, I bought fruit: apples,
strawberries, blueberries, anything I could dehydrate. More
toothpaste and more dental floss, more vitamins and fish oil. More
toilet paper. Dried beans. And two gallons of milk – this might
very well be my last cheese making activity.
Down
under my driver's seat is my emergency cash for trips. I dug into
that and kept going.
Next
stop, a feed store. Two bags of pellets for the rabbits, poultry
feed for the quail, wood pellets for litter, and whatever hay I could
buy. You could tell that there was something up by those that were
sensitive to such things (and shopped at these types of stores):
seeds, animal feed, tools – all were in short supply.
At
this point you may wonder that I have not mentioned anyone else
around me. In part that is simply because at this point in the
program I was very focused on making sure that I accomplished
everything I needed to. But yes, there were many people out in
force. The first grocery store I stopped in was not bad, but the
second one was a whirlwind of people and purchases and empty shelves.
I walked out.
The
sporting goods store was a sea of flashing law enforcement lights and
people out in front – I debated going in but it simply looked too
complex to try to do so – and frankly, with a truck cab full of
items I was beginning to become a bit nervous about leaving it for
too long. A note to myself to try a store in a smaller town in the
next few days.
Perhaps
somewhat surprisingly, the oil change I stopped for took no time at
all – the lines were virtually non-extant. And at 5,000 miles
between changes, it might be a very long time before I needed another
one.
My
last stop – you will mock me – was the used book store. They
were only accepting cash at this point, so my options were limited.
They had all the works of Dostoevsky in those cheap paperback Penguin
versions. I bought them all.
One
more stop at a second fuel station farther out of town that was still
accepting cards (with limits on amounts spent) to fill up the truck
again and the other fuel can. And in a splurge to myself – perhaps
the last one – I stopped at my favorite Chicken restaurant and
ordered my favorite chicken sandwich, with the fries and the sweet
tea.
The
drive home was surreal. Listening to the radio as I drove into the
sunset – it had literally taken all day to accomplish this – the
voices droned on about some kind of economic crisis, fuel shortage, a
possible “banking holiday” based on economic disruptions and
national debt. The very sorts of things I gave up thinking about and
listening to years ago because I believed I knew where we were
headed.
History
does not always repeat, but it can rhyme.
The
one major town I pass through on my way home was already largely
closed when I drove through, although the parking on the main little
street was a full as it ever was. The night was still warm when I
opened the window. You would hardly have known the day was unlike
any other I have seen in all my years.
Arriving
home, I did something which was atypical for me in all my years:
almost to dark, I knocked on my neighbors door and let them know my
experiences. Thankfully I had met them not a month before so they at
least remembered me; they thanked me and said they would themselves
make a trip tomorrow and spread the word.
And
then to home. Everything was unpacked and placed into its storage.
Rabbits and quail were looked after (the rabbits received an extra
treat for their patience for the day). The dehydrator came out and I
sliced all the fruit I had purchased. The milk for the cheese
would have to wait for tomorrow.
But
I was not yet done.
On
to the InterWeb. I checked the balance of my bank account, then went
on line and did another round of ordering: Seeds, a few more books,
ammunition. On the one hand it drove my thrifty heart mad to spend
the funds; on the other, I would rather try now and fail than lose
the money without even making the attempt.
And
finally, my letter to you.
As I
write this, the refrigerator hums on and off. The rabbits quietly
eat or lie down, a little confused by this late night light but not
unduly disturbed by it. The cup of tea to my right steams and curls,
smelling of far off fragrances that I am suddenly questioning if I
will ever taste - or even hear of – again.
For
all appearances, it is another ordinary (although rather late) night.
But
for me, Lucilius, my world has changed. The new range of my travels
has become 25 miles or so, which will easily get me to the two next
largest towns. That is a 50 mile round trip. I can do the math and
figure out how much fuel that will mean and how many trips that is.
Before long, that will change to 20 miles round trip – about as far
as the Roman legions considered a good march in a day.
My
personal horizons collapsed years ago, Lucilius. Now I find that the
world's horizons are collapsing as well.
Do
what you can now, friend. I will write as long as power and InterWeb
exists.
Your
Obedient Servant, Seneca
