Thanksgiving in America is upon us. The hectic energy of the upcoming holiday season is well underway. The grocery stores have become a derby zone of folks in carts crashing through the aisles racing to get the bags of potatoes for two bits, and the battles at the endcaps for the last cans of cranberry sauce. The freezer is like a loading belt of frozen turkeys going from the meat department worker who can’t feel their hands from the hours of loading the frozen foul, into the bins where the poultry pirates grab them twice as fast. Pumpkin pies are as scarce as the the cranberries. Messages of peace and joy are all over, going unnoticed while wrestling match in the deli department spills into bakery with the cries of hungry warriors looking to make their sandwiches.
This is all in preparation of the big battle. A day so filled with peril it’s been named “BLACK FRIDAY!”
The day has grown so crazed it’s taken and killed the evening before it, and the 3 days following. Every store becomes a battle ground. Food courts become a triage for wounded warriors who can recharge and rest between rounds. Cashiers from the stores work as teams to try to keep the carnage to a minimum. Security patrols run increased rounds trying as well to keep the madness from spilling over in the streets. Fat greasy corporations each the battle royale from afar, where they are clearly the only victors in the chaos. Hospitals become full of wounded, and there’s always someone who pays the ultimate price. Their body can’t take the constant battery of the stress brigade.
I stopped years ago. Now I get what I need weeks before. I stock my fortress with all the necessities so I won’t have to leave and risk life and limb for a can of cranberries. I head out with my family only when I know everyone else is busy licking their wounds at home.