The Collapse CXCVI: Black Friday

 28 November 20XX+1

My Dear Lucilius:

Once upon a time the day after Thanksgiving was known by the sobriquet “Black Friday”, that wild day of shopping madness that was intended to brings retailers from losses (“The Red”) to profit (“The Black”). In the space of my lifetime I saw it emerge from nothing to a virtual mosh pit of consumerism to a more restrained of leisurely shopping event, on par with going to the movies or other forms of entertainment.

The high water mark, as I recall, was sometimes in the mid-aughts, when things reached such a fever pitch point that people were camping out to get the deal of a lifetime. And who can forget the vigorous shoving matches that passed for shopping as individuals jabbed and thrust for the 50% off latest electronic thing or the latest rage in children’s toys.

I would almost wish for the problem of locating a “Tickle Me Elmo” again.

Today’s version of “Black Friday” found me out (at least there was no snow, although it was a clear day) scrounging.

Any day that is not completely wet and snowy here is a good day for it (the wet and snowy ones are less good for them, but it happens on those days as well). I have suggested – and was generally supported – in the idea that we should start working to mine out the resource that we have in town at this point.

Mind you, not that there are a great many to mine out here. The three or four remaining businesses have long been either stripped (our combination gas station/minimarket) or gone (The RV Park and Bar), and unless one needs store fittings, there is not much to be had there. Which leaves homes of course, homes of those who have not been here in almost two years and perhaps are never destined to return. I estimate that within two weeks we will have gotten all there is to have of any value.

This has troubled me greatly, Lucilius. No matter the circumstances (they are indeed grim), I cannot help feeling like I am engaging in some sort of thievery in doing this: these are not our houses, these are not our things. And yet they hold the potential for things that may help some of us get through the Winter into Spring.

At the back of my mind – an even less pleasant thought – is that if we do not get them, those in town that we do not see eye to eye with will get to them first.

The bargain I have had to strike with my conscience is to be as non-destructive as we can be and leave a note. The note does not matter of course I suppose; perhaps if there is ever a “return to civilization” there will be a force majeure put into place and past thievery forgiven.

I write the letters. I sign the letters. I send them off with Young Xerxes and he or one of his compatriots supervising the efforts leaves the letters.

I write “supervises” advisedly. I will not stand for reckless looting and have said as much. And to date, that I know of, nothing of the sort has happened, at least from our end of the table.

I know – likely you consider this sort of thing a bit of farce, a man of another era’s attempt to justify actions in his mind. To be fair, both Stateira and Young Xerxes looked oddly at me when I made the request. Pompeia Paulina, to my knowledge, has reserved all judgment – although she has been kind in selecting the stationary for me to use.

Perhaps there will come a day, even here, where such social niceties perish completely and we are nothing more than savages tearing at one another. That may happen – but with any luck, not during my time.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca