I can buy a whole cake.
My father’s insistence that “cash is for thieves” severely limited the ability of the McKnight children to make our own purchases until we reached an age when the bank would issue us checking accounts and debit cards. The concept of an allowance existed in theory but was implemented in practice through a series of highly complex negotiations.
Caroline or I, on finding something we wanted to buy, might suggest that we had not received our allowance in four weeks and were owed the almost unthinkable lump sum of twenty dollars. My parents would dispute the amount, claiming that we had received our allowance for two of the weeks and were owed only ten dollars, except that we had not done our chores one week and were thus entitled only to five. The negotiation might continue for days and the eventual consensus did not matter because, on attempting to collect our debts, we would invariably find that neither parent carried cash, so the funds were completely inaccessible to children anyway.
The only other source of money for us was a tin of coins, which was kept in a cabinet of other worldly delights — sugar and so forth — and was accessible only by standing on a chair. I remember that it contained a great wealth of quarters at one point in my childhood. By the late middle school years, however, it was reduced mostly to nickels and pennies.
Occasionally, after a great windfall, we might purchase a single bag of kettle corn at the farmers market, which would deplete our entire net worth. Other than that, most purchasing was handled centrally through our parents.
In college, I would, from time to time, require reimbursement from the college business office for some purchase, a process which took several weeks, original receipts, and a temperamental spreadsheet. Working for the State, I only ever scratched the surface of the mysteries of House Financial Operations, which oversaw the movement of every penny. Compared to my parents, however, even these offices, in all of their institutional austerity, seemed like freewheeling bastions of excess.
Consider, for example, the process to purchase a chocolate bar. In an institutional setting, I would simply purchase the chocolate bar, write a sentence about the important institutional purpose that it served, and provide a heap of documentation to whoever controls the reimbursement of such funds. Under the McKnight system? Much more difficult.
Planning for any such purchase would have to start days in advance with “being nice,” an exercise in which one would have to remain not only completely blameless for days on end, but would also have to slowly cultivate a feeling of warmth from the entire family. This was a fine line, however, since being too nice would blow one’s cover. Asking “how was your day?” when a parent returned home was an important part of being nice, but asking, “how was your day, dear mother?” or showing too much interest in the answer would ruin everything: “What’s going on? What do you want? We’re not buying anything.”
Being nice was exhausting, and the process would carry on for days. A missing school assignment, coat left somewhere other than the rack, or argument of any kind would derail the whole operation. Finally, a trip to Meijer would be announced. I would offer to come along to “help push the cart” or some other feeble excuse. This was the endgame. I would restrain myself in the ice cream aisle and among the fruit snacks, keeping my eyes on the prize: one single chocolate bar. The chocolate bars were at the checkout. There would be just moments to make the final decision and obtain approval.
In the culmination of what could be a full week of tireless effort and flawless execution, I would inquire about the chocolate bar at the last possible moment. There was no time for nuance or balance now, and I would lay it on thick: “May I please, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, please have this chocolate bar, please? It can come out of my allowance! I think you may have neglected to give it to me last week — not that it’s your fault! I understand that, with the pressures of raising a family, you have many competing priorities, and…”
The verdict would come swiftly — often before I even had the chance to complete my opening argument: “Are you crazy? Why would you even ask if you could bring that poison into my home? And you already got your allowance.”
For a time, it would have been possible to get my chocolate fix from the school vending machines, but the depletion of the quarter supply combined with the machines beginning to reject nickels and the coming of the Obama administration to deprive me of even that simple joy.
Adulthood, for all its miseries, does bring the pleasure of having one’s own spending money. There is nothing at the grocery store that is off-limits to me. If I wanted, I could buy cigarettes and lottery tickets all day and it would be perfectly permissible. Cigarettes and lottery tickets do not interest me, but many other grocery wonders do.
Several weeks ago, I bought a small cake. “Cake for two — or more for you!” promised the box, in what was the most effective marketing I have ever seen. An entire personal cake exists in the same place in my mind as a first-class, lie-flat seat on a transoceanic flight. I know it exists and that somebody must be buying it, but surely I could never have one.
The cake for two — or more for me! was five dollars. I bought it. It was a tremendous experience. It seemed almost impossible. I was certain I would be struck by lightning or hit by a car before I got home, but I made it. I got home, left my coat in the middle of the floor (no niceness here), and devoured the thing. It was good enough, but I get the sense it might have been better if I had to haggle for it.
Distractions
Things I have been reading, watching, and listening to this week.
“The Pandemic Shows Us the Genius of Supermarkets” by Bianca Bosker in The Atlantic.
Speaking of grocery stores, they’ve become the only indoor place that I visit for the last year. While I am the worst grocery shopper that ever lived (sixteen different kinds of canned tomatoes paralyze me with indecision), I respect that the grocery store is a miracle of the modern world and I love it for that — especially now. Between thinking about grocery stores and global logistics (what with the Suez situation), this article is worth revisiting.
Whatever this is from the Suez Canal Authority.
The Suez Canal Authority, to highlight their hard work in removing the stuck ship, has put out this short video of a bunch of people sitting in a meeting. You cannot hear what they are saying because of the loud, suspenseful music over the whole thing. I do not know what this is or why it exists, but I love it. All meetings should have this.