On Monday afternoon (March 16th), while my nanny watched the girls, I ran a few errands and worked for a few hours. Toilet paper had disappeared off the shelves a week or so prior, but a friend told me about a secret stash at a convenience/liquor store near her house. We weren’t incredibly low on toilet paper, but I also didn’t want to run out completely a few weeks later with a new baby in the house. I stopped by the liquor store and the clerk automatically handed me a pack of toilet paper as I walked through the door. I guess it was the most likely item a 37-week pregnant woman in a liquor store might want. I decided to grab three packs, two for us and one for my nanny who mentioned her elderly parents were running low. I knew it was going to be incredibly overpriced. The sticker on the front of my friend’s pack had said $3.99. And this was the cheap toilet paper that comes in a pack of four, where a roll only lasts a day or two, even with minimal use. But I figured it would be good to have a little extra on hand, just in case. Imagine my surprise when I walked up to the register to make my purchase and the clerk said my total was $16.00. ($1.33 a roll!) Clearly, they had upped their prices knowing they were the only supplier in town. Capitalism hurts every now and then. He stuffed my purchase in a black plastic bag, and I left the shop feeling like I had been completely ripped off but also like I had found a treasure.
I made my way across town to work in one of my favorite bakeries for what I knew would probably be the last time in a long time. Before I got out of my car, I took note of my black market toilet paper sitting on the front seat and decided to stuff it in the backseat, out of view. I would later find out this was not unwarranted…
I walked into the bakery and was able to snag their last loaf of crusty bread which I was planning to use to make french toast for friends the following morning. I had invited a couple of moms and their kids over for brunch and playtime since school was out, knowing that our opportunities to socialize were probably coming to an end. I ordered a Nutella latte and sat down to grade for an hour or two. Before heading home, I would run into the grocery store next door to pick up a few items for our brunch the next day.
As I was working, I noticed that Ralph’s next door was extremely busy. People were coming and going through its doors at a rate unlike any Monday afternoon I had ever seen, and I typically shop on Monday afternoons, so I know what the stores are like at that time — generally pretty peaceful. I also noticed a trickle of people stopping by the bakery looking for bread, only to be disappointed. The shelves were completely empty, and I began to feel bad that the last loaf of the day was bagged and sitting next to me.
I wrapped up my grading and headed over to Ralph’s, hoping to grab some berries for our french toast and maybe a couple of dinner items as well. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw inside the grocery store. The produce department. Empty. The shelves. Empty. The meat selection. Completely gone. Just black and beige shelving reflecting the shine of the fluorescent lights overhead. Up until this point, I had laughed about the grocery stores. People were hoarding toilet paper and paper towels and hand sanitizer, but produce and meat had been plentiful. I could wash my hands with regular soap and eat healthy meals that would maintain my immune system.
Now, suddenly, I felt like living in a novel about WWII Europe or Communist Russia. There were no berries to be found, so I grabbed a few lingering organic oranges and apples that were sitting on a nearly empty stand. There were signs up on all the refrigerator cases stating limits on milk, cheese, eggs, poultry, and beef. Two per household in each category. But there were no eggs or milk in sight. I walked down the canned food and pasta aisle and the shelves were desolate. I made my way over to the meat department to hopefully find a few dinner items and there was almost nothing. No chicken, no turkey, no ground beef. I was able to grab two large packages of carne asada and figured I could split the portions into four meals. I also grabbed one skimpy package of salmon, because it was the only other option.
I made my way to the front with my random assortment of food where the clerk informed me I had to return one of the carne asada packages. Apparently, they were limiting all customers to two packages of meat total, despite what the signs said. The checker ran the larger pack of beef across the scanner with an apologetic half-smile.
I headed home with my measly bag of groceries and felt a little bit of fear for the first time during this whole event. What was happening in America? Why were the shelves empty? And what would it be like to have a baby in a world of no toilet paper, no baby wipes, and, possibly, no food?
