From the Anthology
Pandemic Reflections: Five Years Later
Toilet paper. For six months in 2020, with COVID-19 fatalities soaring and society on the precipice of Zombie Apocalypse, panic buying led to rationing of several products. Shelf-stable milk, pasta, canned goods… and toilet paper.
I began working at ExpressCart, my local grocery store’s online ordering and pickup service, soon after Ohio issued a shelter-in-place order. It was my half-baked idea for contributing to the Greater Good – reduce the number of people in the store, lower the opportunity to spread the virus, something like that. The job was a front-row seat to the pandemic’s effects. Masking, social distancing, sanitizing contact surfaces. Rows of empty shelves. Rationing.
After the lockdowns lifted and vaccinations began, I kept working one day a week at ExpressCart because I found pleasure in the work. Zapping UPC labels with a barcode scanner for eight hours was surprisingly relaxing: little stress, light exercise (15k steps baby!), social interactions with customers (“breadcrumbs are in the baking aisle”), and a benefit pleasing to my writer’s soul: eight hours alone with my thoughts. A full day to reflect on my current reading, cogitate stories I’m developing, and compose inane parodies of 1960s/70s/80s pop songs.
The invitation to write a postscript to my Voices from the Edge essay occupied my thoughts on a recent shift…
Send the greeting text: I’ll be your ExpressCart shopper today! First item is toilet paper. For all our civic-mindedness five years ago, let’s not forget how we stocked up on Charmin and Quilted Northern like squirrels hoarding acorns. Dishwasher pods. After rationing ended, this store looked no different than it had before. “Yes, we have naan. It’s in a display case by deli.” If someone had shot a video here in 2019 and compared it to a video made today, the differences might not be perceptible.
Antibacterial cleanser. And I’ve been putting out fire with Mr. Clean. Movie version of “Cat People,” definitely better. There’s more self-checkout stations and fewer cashiers, a trend that started prior to 2020 but accelerated during the lockdown. Cinnamon-flavored cereal. I’d actually expected more automation; for the first edition of Voices from the Edge, I wrote: If we can’t build a robot that can take over ExpressCart in five years, we officially suck. So much for my prognostication skills. Good thing I don’t bet on sports. “Pancake mix is in the cereal aisle.” Technological advances since 2020 have been in AI instead of robotics, intellectual rather than manual labor.
Baking powder. Clabber Girl, she’s a Clabber Girl. What’s Moon Unit Zappa doing these days? Grocery stores won’t be revolutionized until delivery becomes ubiquitous. Diced tomatoes. InstaCart and related services won’t be affordable so long as customers pay for human labor and insurance. Alfredo sauce. When they become safe, robot cars will be as disruptive as smartphones. Egg noodles, extra wide. Forget delivery by flying drones – in addition to the bulk and weight issues, who’s going to regulate low-altitude skies over residential areas to ensure drones aren’t crashing into each other? “Honey’s in the bread aisle.” Robot cars can use existing roadways.
Rigatoni. Bar-bar-bar, bar-bar-Barilla. Grocery shopping hasn’t changed, but the world outside the store definitely has. Not for the better. Taco tortillas. The political and cultural divide has gotten worse; the George Floyd protests, the January 6 riot. Enchilada sauce. Medical decisions are now based on party affiliation and religion. “Pie crusts? Room temperature, refrigerated, or frozen?”
Opponents have become enemies; you can debate and reconcile with an opponent, but enemies fight until one victor emerges.
Barbeque sauce. And rockabye, Sweet Baby Ray’s. The next pandemic will be worse. Any advances in vaccine manufacturing and distribution will be negated by distrust and disinformation. “Bathrooms are on the right, past the last register.” Many will suffer like I did when COVID-19 finally struck me in fall 2023. Olive oil. I’d let my guard down during a spike in infections from a new variant; I hadn’t received a booster vaccination in eight months and took no precautions while attending a conference. Hot dog buns. After falling ill I didn’t eat for two days, as I became nauseous even thinking about food, much less seeing or smelling it. “Tuna fish? Aisle 3, by the boxed pasta.” My fever spiked over 101°, my blood-oxygen fell below 95%; on the evening of the third day my wife vowed to drive me to a hospital if my condition worsened overnight. Split-top wheat bread. Fortunately, I was marginally better in the morning and avoided a trip to the emergency room, but if I’d caught an earlier version of the virus, before being vaccinated, maybe I wouldn’t have recovered so swiftly.
Almond milk. Almond Breeze… makes me feel fine. Some type of transformative social cataclysm seems inevitable. “Tartar sauce is in aisle 1, top shelf.” Income disparity is another pre-pandemic trend that’s become much worse. I’m fortunate enough to not have to rely on this job to pay the bills, which is good because earning a living at these wages is mathematically impossible, despite this job being essential for the continued function of the economy, as the letter that still resides in my glove compartment attests. Coffee creamer. And when AI-powered robots eventually vindicate my prediction about job losses, truck drivers joining cashiers in The Land of Displaced Workers, how does an economy so reliant on consumer spending continue with wages collapsing?
Shredded cheese. Colby Jack, when are you coming back? Public health emergency, technological disruption, political violence, economic revolt. Margarine. I’m still optimistic for the future, that our ludicrous abundance of resources will once again enable us to overcome whatever disaster strikes.
Maybe.
Send the final text: Your order is complete. Thank you for using ExpressCart! The only thing I’m certain of is that the first shelves to be emptied at the outset of the next social crisis will be in the toilet paper aisle. We might not officially suck, but when faced with difficult problems we have this sad tendency to forget what’s essential.
Ken Rogers is a writer in Northeast Ohio. His fiction, published under the name Keigh Ahr, has appeared in Permafrost, CommuterLit, and Corner Bar Magazine. His journalism has appeared in Freshwater Cleveland, WISH Cleveland, and Voices from the Edge, a collection of essays by workers in front-line industries during the COVID-19 pandemic. A graduate of Northwestern University and Loyola University of Chicago, he is now an active member of Literary Cleveland. More of his work can be found at keighahr.substack.com/.
