Coping Mechanisms

Panic Buying

The lineups form long before store opens now. The hoard is out there every morning, ready with their shopping carts and their trolleys. Panicked. It used to be the free samples were the best part of Costco. It used to be I was comfortable with crowds, handing out crackers with Asiago dip or simmered cocktail wieners on toothpicks.

Now I'm showing new hire Brendan the ropes, showing him how to be an "essential employee" in the middle of a growing pandemic. Gary's task was to get us to hang up all the new signs in front of in-demand products before store opening. Products like hand sanitizer and and bleach and Lysol wipes.

LIMIT TWO PACKAGES PER CUSTOMER.

The printer broke, though, so that delayed us twenty minutes.

We get to the toilet paper aisle and I glance at my watch. "Oh shit." I move faster, the scotch tape sticking to my fingers in my rush to hang the signs. We're barely halfway down the aisle when the store opens.

The store breathes life with the sound of the rolling shopping cart wheels, empty metal cages waiting to be filled with product. People scream. They laugh. They give to the pressure of panic buying.

I glance at Brendan but he tapes up another sign.

"We should go," I say.

He shakes the rest of the papers in his hand. "We have a job to do."

The rattling builds, echoing within the vast expanse of the store. Customers round the corner. They fill the aisle with their carts, all hasty and frantic and driven. It's a joke to some but a life or death situation for others. I twist myself out of the chaos, elbowing bodies toward safety, but Brendan turns and raises his hands. A middle-aged woman pulls up beside him. She grabs two bulk packs of 50 rolls and tosses them inside. Then she turns and fists two more.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but the sign says—"

"I don't fucking care what the sign says!" She shoves past Brendan's extended reach just as another shopper pushes their way into the aisle. Carts clang. A commotion builds. Customers decimate the skids. The stacked packages give under the fury and people stumble into the mess, grabbing at the plastic.

A few voices express concern but the wall of carts only strengthens. People stumble over him in their attempts to reach for the dwindling stock.

"Stop!" I call. "You're hurting him!"

A shopping cart rams against my hip. I press through, reaching out to grab the orange of Brendan's Costco vest. The crowd mutates into a wave of desperate bodies, forcing my steps forward. I trip over the exposed corner of a pallet and collapse over Brendan's narrow frame.

Bulk toilet paper falls around us, but each package is subsequently grabbed and replaced with eager limbs. A foot steps over my leg. A knee lands against my hip. We slip between the compromised stacks and my elbow crashes through the splintered pallet wood.

"Fuck!"

Brendan's groan slips against my ear. He grips my arm and scrambles onto his feet, pulling me with him beneath the metal racking.

We hide behind a display of dish soap and wait out the crowd, our gasped breaths dulled between the cardboard displays. It's not until the carts are muffled that I realize he's still gripping my elbow.

"This fucking crazy" I pry myself out of his hold. "We are not getting paid enough for this bullshit."

"Don't swear," he says. "It's fine."

People laugh as they scramble into the next aisle, filling what space they have left in their carts with beans and pasta and bulk packs of frozen chicken breasts.

The discarded signs flutter over the cement floor.

LIMIT TWO PACKAGES PER CUSTOMER.

"This isn't worth it," I say.

He wipes his forehead against the sleeve of his blue polo shirt. "We should probably tell Gary."

"He's not going to give a shit." I dab a tear from my eye before touching the sore spot on my elbow.

"Stop swearing," Brendan says. "And you're not supposed to touch your face, remember?"

The skin's torn. Red seeps from beneath the cut, but the wound is more of an impact than a scrape. I bend my arm and the sting gives way to an ache that works all the way up the bone. My jaw tightens. My lips contort. Emotion takes over and another tear slips out that I can't wipe away without him seeing.

Fuck, I think.

Fuck this.

Fuck everything.