I stroll into the local supermarket, working my way around the mountain of toilet paper stacked between the door and the shopping carts. I grab a cart and head for the vegetable department with its bins of colorful fruits and vegetables positioned between the stacks of wrapped toilet paper rolls in tidy columns, three feet high. Grabbing a bunch of apples and some broccoli, I hurry past the meat department and the great pyramid of TP that stands like a beacon for anyone who’s lost their way on the hunt for protein.
In need of bread, I dash down the cooler aisle towards the bakery, when I remember that I am out of milk: 2%. But I can’t see any, and I have to push the 12-roll packs of toilet paper aside to find the lone jug wedged at the back. I sigh. Grabbing the milk, several packets of paper product fall to the floor. I briefly consider ignoring them and walking away, but training is too strong. I pick them up and put them back inside the cooler.
In the bakery area, more white packets are nestled next to the French loaves and bagels. I shake my head and wonder why I seem to be the only person to think this is excessive.
Since the great toilet paper panic of 2020, toilet paper became readily available for sale everywhere –I mean everywhere: auto mechanics, car dealerships, libraries, burger drive-thru’s and any other type of restaurant. Even in the snack dispensers ─covered rolls hanging alongside the chips and chocolate bars.
Online marketing schemes offered them as prizes, as did school raffles, and local Bingo halls ─a 48-pack, the grand prize! The word ‘jackpot’ had taken on a whole new meaning since that desperate time in history, when a consumer would actually shout the word when stumbling onto a eight-pack of cheap toilet paper in an otherwise empty aisle.
Amidst the crisis, toilet paper became elevated in the minds of the public. It was no longer something you simply wiped your butt with; it came to represent security, stability, confidence, wealth, and even purity. The lowly ass-wiper had been elevated to a place of honor, and then, later on, as an object of veneration.
Grabbing my bread, I turned and walked right into Reverend Luke, a nice enough guy for a fanatic. His plastic toilet-paper cap was sitting on his head at a jaunty angle, which he believed made him seem more approachable. The white robes he wore ─designed to emulate a quilted variety of toilet paper─always looked in need of a good flushing.
“Sarah!” he said, startled.
“Hello, Reverend,” I answer evenly, moving around him.
“We haven’t seen you in church lately.”
“I’ve been busy, sorry.”
“Too busy to keep clean and dry? It takes devotion to wipe away the stains of evil.”
The Church of the Holy 3ply had a vernacular peppered with toilet paper references.
The church was founded on the apparent miracle that occurred at the height of the toilet paper crisis, when many were on the verge of going without (due to hoarding, I believe) and panic was about to sweep through the communities.
Legend says that Maria, the night cleaner in one of the smaller supermarkets, found a single roll of toilet paper inside the warehouse at the back of the store. As she picked it up, another roll appeared in its place, and when she picked that up, a second one appeared, and then another. Frantically, she began lifting and packing up the toilet rolls as fast as she could until, exhausted, she was forced to stop.
It was then that the toilet roll fell on its side and began to roll across the shelf, and with each complete turn it left behind a duplicate of itself. It rolled to the end of the shelf and fell to the floor, where it continued to rotate, making more duplicates until the entire floor of the warehouse was filled with toilet paper. Maria, uplifted by Spirit, worked through the night, packing up all the rolls; and in the morning when the manager arrived─expecting to have a riot on his hands at the lack of paper products─found the shelves filled to overflowing and Maria asleep in the aisle, on a bed of toilet paper rolls.
After that, there were no more shortages at that store, no matter how many people showed up ─which was a hell of a lot after word got out. Or so the story goes. Me, I think ‘Maria’ was a sketchy guy with a big truck who made nightly runs across the border for the store manager.
But I guess everyone who shopped there became believers, because there are a lot of churches in this city. Even my grandparents were true believers. My parents just copied what their parents believed. But I couldn’t bring myself to worship at the feet of a paper God ─not once I was old enough to understand what was going on around me.
“Thank you for your concern, Reverend,” I say hurriedly, finding it difficult to look him in the face. There are little pieces of toilet paper stuck to his chin and cheeks, held there by fake blood: a symbol of respect for the historical role the mighty TP played in our human history. Perhaps it wouldn’t look so weird if he didn’t have a full beard.
“Can we expect to see you next service?” he asked, ever hopeful.
“I’ll be there,” I lie glibly and keep on walking.
After paying for my purchases, I leave the store and cross the short distance to my motorbike sitting safely in the supermarket parking lot. I stuff the food into a saddlebag and was about to put on my helmet when I see three men setting up their instruments and money jars near the store entrance.
Extremists, who wear nothing but thick layers of toilet paper wrapped around their bodies. It is clear, even from here, that they should have used at thicker ply. But what is more disturbing is the little bits of white I see stuck to their faces. Unlike the Reverend, these guys have no beard. Their sect believes in the traditional way: cutting themselves every morning while shaving─usually deliberately─to hold the little bits of TP in place, as a sign of their devotion.
Shaking my head in disbelief at the incredible stupidity of humanity, I move the bike out of its parking stall and approach the stop sign. Like a good driver should, I come to a complete and full stop, when my bike is suddenly hit from behind and I’m sent flying into the air. Horrified, I am headed for the plate-glass window of the store, but luckily there isn’t enough momentum. Instead, it will be the cement sidewalk ─and something is going to get broken. I close my eyes and pray for a soft landing. I come down hard, my body jarred by the impact, but unbelievably I’m not hurt.
I open my eyes and discover toilet paper piled all around me and even underneath me. Confused─ disbelieving─ I rise onto an elbow to watch while a single roll of TP continues to rotate, making duplicates of itself with every turn, and I realize that I was just saved by a fucking toilet paper miracle.
I fall back onto the pillowy softness and think: Damn!