Chapter 3

The line at the Bodega was stupid long. The little grocery store was not known for having the greatest selection or the best prices, but it was still a well-traveled destination for the support staff sort like Beau, who still had to buy their own food and cook it, too. Still, the shelves had wide gaps in them where there were normally products to buy and the items that were left seemed even more expensive than they normally were.

“Prices up?” Beau said to the guy in front of him.

“Seems so,” came the reply. “I grabbed the last locally sourced, organic, and ethical bag of coffee. The price tag says it is $40. I’m going to have the cashier double-check it.”

Beau looked at his basket. He had the almond milk. It was normally $10, but the price tag said it was now $15. He had just bought some last week, so he remembered well how much it should cost. There was some margarine in there, too, and the price of that did not seem changed all that much. The cheese slices, however, were definitely more, although he couldn’t figure just how much more. There was no sugar in his basket because there was no sugar on the Bodega’s shelves. Sheila would not be happy.

There were three registers but only one cashier. The wait would have been worth it if only he could have acquired the sugar, as well.

The guy ahead of him learned that the coffee was, indeed, $40. The answer was definitive, as the cashier was not the college kid it normally was, but the man that they knew owned the Bodega. The customer shook his head, cinched up his coat, and exited, leaving space for Beau to move up finally. His eyes fell immediately on the “Help Wanted” sign that was taped right underneath the credit card machine.

“Why don’t you hire some help? I’ve been in this line for ten minutes,” Beau barked.

The owner stared at him intently. “You don’t think we’ve tried?” he replied.

“Maybe you should offer them more,” Beau said. (Effing greedy capitalists.)

“The minimum wage is $15 an hour already. I am offering $25 an hour, and can’t get any applicants. How much more should I offer?” the owner asked.

“More, obviously,” Beau grumbled.

“Do you think the guy just ahead of you would be happy to pay $50 for his bag of coffee, or $75? Do you think he would pay that much?” the owner asked, scanning Beau’s items.

“I don’t see what that has to do with it,” Beau said.

The owner looked at him blankly. “If I pay someone $35 to work the register instead of $15 or $25, you don’t see how that could impact the price of our items?”

“I would think if you were offering $35 an hour people would be falling all over themselves to apply to work here—” Beau began to explain, but was interrupted by the owner blurting out a laugh in such a way as to leave no doubt that he was, in fact, interrupting.

The owner grinned. “In God’s green earth, why? The college kids I usually hire all had their tuition canceled and then the ‘Free Education For All’ Act was passed, so they don’t have to worry about ever paying for their schooling again. On top of that, they’re getting $1,500 a month for ‘COVID relief” and there is every reason to think that that fig leaf is going to fall soon so we can see what it nakedly is, a ‘universal basic income,’ forever. On top of that, there is rent control, meaning that they don’t have to worry about paying more for their housing. Some even had their mortgage payments suspended indefinitely. They’ll probably cancel that, too. Finally, President Harris’s ‘Food Security’ executive order ensures that they have a stipend to get all of their food essentials each month. If they can have all of this, without ever leaving their home, why would they dress up nicely and come to work for me for $25 an hour, or $35 an hour, or even $50 an hour?”

It was Beau’s turn to look at the owner blankly. “What does the one thing have to do with the other?”

The owner laughed. It was a genuine laugh this time, with no malice in it. “Where do you work, friend?”

Beau puffed himself up a little, “I work for the Department of Energy.” Beau thought, or hoped, at least, that the owner would recognize that a person with such a status would know what they are talking about, and would re-consider matters. But the owner only laughed again.

“I see,” the owner said. “Now I understand.”

Beau was pleased he could render a good service and bid the owner goodbye.

Three checkpoints and two roaming patrols later, Beau was home with his groceries, but no sugar.

Sheila was not happy.