65%
Until several weeks ago, I had a perfect record at the supermarket. 100% of everything I wanted would be randomly scattered about my cart.. 110%, rather, no, 150% even! I’d mouse my way up and down the canyons of consumption ending up, aptly, at the cheese section in the back corner, where my efforts would be rewarded with a sampler tray of Vermont Cheddar.
Along the way I’d check off my list. 100%
Oh look! Swedish Fish, a three-day-old California Roll…and kumquats are in season! 125%
Why not some Kale Kombucha? Lychee LaCroix? A head of cabbage in case I’ve the appetite to whip up some Irish fare this evening? 150%
I’d leer at the double-parkers clogging the aisles, chatting about soap operas., and disapprovingly shake my head at the “Let’s play British!” guy strolling down the wrong side of the lane.
“Let’s play ‘Chicken’!” I’d mutter. He’ll move. A hangry mouse, I am.
When I’d leave the store, hand already deep inside a bag of Sunchips, I’d breathe in the late Winter air an accomplished man; my task complete, I’ve provided for my family and my daughter will thank me for procuring the rare Mint Oreo. Next time, 150% will be my 100%.
There has since been no next time.
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My phone buzzes again. It’s the grocery delivery person apologetically texting me a fourth time in ten minutes, informing me of yet another item on my order that isn’t in stock or requires a substitute. In the next five minutes, it will have buzzed that many more times. I do some quick calculations in my head and realize that the final tally, what will show up at my doorstep, is 65% of what I ordered.
Imagine 65% of other things? 65% of a root canal, for instance, or 65% of a tire change?. I once got 65% of a haircut, actually, just to see what I’d look like with a mullet.
The car door slams and I’m jolted out of my favorite spot on the couch, where I had been watching a Wilco concert on a 70” TV while lounging in a pair of gray sweat-shorts with little pink flamingos on them. I saunter over to the door as the cushion struggles with resilience. Seven straight hours of being smothered by my butt, it seems, is tough on a couch.
Peering out the window, I notice it is pouring as much in the front of the house as it had been from my vantage-point in the back. “Another miserable day outside”, I tell myself, “good thing I don’t have to go there anymore.”
I open the door to a bunch of half-full plastic bags sitting on the front stoop, sheltered from the rain. Out of the corner of my eye I see a man practically dressed in a hazmat suit walking back to his Altima; gloves, a mask… a yellow rain jacket completes the CDC investigator look.
“Thank you for your service!” I yell out to him instinctively, in time for him to acknowledge with a wave. Thank you for your service? These people are not fighting wars… they’re not in the hospital wards. They’re just bringing 65% of my grocery order to my door so that people like me suffer only the disruption of a rock concert on a Smart TV.
A mad dash begins to sanitize the goods, but all I can think about is the service I’ve impulsively hollered by gratitude for as if I were talking to a veteran. I think about it as I wipe down the milk carton with a Pampers wet nap. I think about it as I absent-mindedly bathe an apple with Purell and then take a bite.
Bam! It hits me with a clarity only citrus and hand sanitizer can provide.
I stand back for a second and stare at the 65%. I look down at my makeshift appletini… and then take a second bite.
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I’m whisked back to the text conversation with the gentleman risking his health so that I can have my mandarin oranges; the back and forth with a likely newly-removed full-time employee, compromising himself so that I don’t have to while I work my job from home, lamenting from time to time my children’s screaming. I consider his apologies for the incomplete list, while still securing my kid’s chicken nuggets, so that he can have a chance to afford the same for his. And yet, tonight and in the days to come the 65% of off-brands and not-quites can still be cobbled together to make full meals and munchies for my homebound family.
So maybe “Thank you for your service” was the correct praise. Perhaps I could have added “and for your patience, and for helping to feed my children, and for doing what I was unwilling to do, and for doing what needs to be done for you, and for downright being essential”… but the air was cool and the rain…wet. I’m sure he didn’t want to risk Pneumonia, too.
I leave a tip and step back into the family room, where the concert has been replaced by Frozen. I’m usually quite mad if my music is turned off, but not today. This time, I let it go.
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I imagine one day I’ll return to the supermarket, a grateful mouse this time, and find meaning in the mundane rather than set my robotic mind to more…stuff…now. Perhaps I’ll actually smell the Vermont cheddar sampler before I devour it, three pieces to a toothpick as is my custom.
And whether this era of uncertainty continues or not, I’ll remember that 65% of what we want is often 100% of what we need. I suspect this lesson will be one held dearly as a result of these times. That is, of course, until I’m given Hunt’s instead of Heinz and I blow a friggin’ gasket.
