Discount Store Marcus Aurelius and the Cart Business

Discount Store Marcus Aurelius had finally accepted the shopping cart.

Not emotionally.

The cart was still a piece of shit.

One wheel remained fundamentally opposed to civilization.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

But Marcus understood.

The wheel was outside his control.

The cart was his responsibility.

Push the fucking cart.

Simple.

Then Bubbles showed up.

The Cart Business

Marcus left the cart outside for approximately four minutes.

Four.

He had been called to aisle four.

Again.

Apparently somebody had dropped a jar of pickles.

Marcus looked at the spill.

He looked at the mop.

He sighed.

“Is this within my jurisdiction?”

The manager stared at him.

“Marcus. You work here.”

“Fuck.”

So Marcus cleaned aisle four.

When he came back outside, the shopping carts were gone.

All of them.

Marcus stood in the parking lot.

No carts.

Not even the fucked one.

For the first time all evening, there was no:

Clack.

Silence.

Then Marcus saw him.

Bubbles.

Across the parking lot.

Loading the carts into a van.

Marcus walked over.

“Those carts belong to the store.”

Bubbles adjusted his glasses.

“Well, technically I found the cocksuckers outside.”

Marcus stared at him.

Bubbles stared back.

Somewhere in the universe, Epictetus began laughing.

What Is Actually Within My Control?

Marcus considered his options.

Could he control Bubbles?

No.

Could he control the international secondhand shopping-cart economy?

Apparently not.

Could he recover the carts?

Possibly.

Was he going to spend the rest of his shift fighting a Canadian man with enormous glasses over six discount-store shopping carts?

Marcus Aurelius had commanded Roman armies.

He had fought Germanic tribes.

He had governed an empire.

He had survived Commodus.

He was not prepared for Bubbles.

“What are you doing with them?”

Bubbles looked offended.

“Cart business.”

Of course.

Marcus closed his eyes.

Stoicism had not covered this.

Meanwhile, on Aisle Four

A crash came from inside the store.

Marcus turned around.

Ricky.

Of course it was fucking Ricky.

Ricky had somehow knocked over an entire display while attempting to explain to an employee that the store's return policy violated his constitutional rights.

Nobody knew which constitution.

Ricky certainly didn't.

The announcement came over the speaker.

“Cleanup on aisle four.”

Marcus looked toward the store.

Then toward Bubbles.

Then toward the carts.

Then back toward the store.

This was becoming a philosophical stress test.

“I just cleaned aisle four.”

The speaker did not respond.

Reality rarely does.

Julian

Then Julian appeared.

Rum and Coke in hand.

Of course.

Nobody knew where he had come from.

Nobody knew why he was there.

Nobody knew how, despite everything happening around him, the drink remained perfectly upright.

Marcus had watched civilizations collapse with less stability than Julian's rum and Coke.

Bubbles was stealing shopping carts.

Ricky had destroyed aisle four.

Somebody was yelling about coupons near customer service.

A child was licking a freezer door.

Julian stood in the middle of it all.

Drink intact.

Marcus looked at him.

“Are you involved in this?”

Julian took a sip.

“No.”

Marcus knew this was almost certainly bullshit.

But proving it would require effort.

Not his department.

The Stoic Problem

This is where Discount Store Marcus Aurelius encountered an important limitation in simplified Stoicism.

People love saying:

“Focus on what you can control.”

Fine.

But reality does not provide a fucking dashboard.

There is no screen that says:

YOUR JURISDICTION

• thoughts
• actions
• aisle four

NOT YOUR JURISDICTION

• Ricky
• Bubbles
• Julian
• Canadian cart resale markets
• why Julian's drink never spills

Sometimes you have to figure the shit out while everything is already on fire.

Marcus could not control Bubbles.

But the carts belonged to his store.

Marcus could not control Ricky.

But Ricky had destroyed his aisle.

Marcus could not control Julian.

Nobody could control Julian.

Possibly not even Julian.

The question wasn't:

“Can I control everything happening here?”

Obviously fucking not.

The question was:

“What part of this mess is actually mine?”

Unfortunately, some of it was.

Cleanup on Aisle Four

Marcus went back inside.

Ricky was attempting to clean the spill with paper towels.

This had somehow made it worse.

“Stop.”

Ricky looked up.

“I know what I'm doing.”

Marcus looked at aisle four.

“Evidence remains discouraging.”

Julian stood at the end of the aisle.

Rum and Coke.

Perfectly level.

Bubbles rolled another shopping cart past the entrance.

Marcus saw him.

Bubbles saw Marcus.

There was a moment.

Marcus pointed at the cart.

Bubbles shook his head.

Marcus considered pursuing him.

Then looked at the spill.

Aisle four.

His aisle.

His mop.

His fucking problem.

“Unfortunate.”

Bubbles disappeared.

Acceptance Is Not Approval

This is the thing people keep getting wrong.

Marcus did not approve of Bubbles stealing the carts.

Marcus did not approve of Ricky destroying aisle four.

Marcus remained deeply suspicious of Julian.

Acceptance did not mean:

“Everything happening here is fine.”

It meant:

“Everything happening here is happening.”

That is a completely different statement.

You begin with reality.

Not because reality is good.

Not because reality is fair.

Not because reality has made reasonable decisions.

Because reality is the only fucking place from which action is possible.

Bubbles has the carts.

Ricky fucked aisle four.

Julian has the rum and Coke.

Those are the current system conditions.

Now:

What are you going to do?

The Emperor Gets the Mop

Marcus grabbed the mop.

Again.

Clack.

Wait.

No clack.

Bubbles stole the fucking cart.

Marcus sighed.

Somehow he missed the broken wheel.

He cleaned aisle four.

Ricky wandered away.

Julian remained.

Of course Julian remained.

Marcus looked at him.

“You could help.”

Julian raised the rum and Coke slightly.

“Hands are full.”

One hand.

One fucking hand was full.

Marcus stared at him.

Julian stared back.

The drink remained level.

Marcus returned to the mop.

Humanity was humanity.

Bubbles was Bubbles.

Ricky was Ricky.

Julian was apparently an immutable law of physics.

And Marcus Aurelius still had a job to do.

Closing Time

Eventually the store closed.

Aisle four was clean.

Mostly.

Ricky had been escorted out after attempting to return something he had never purchased.

Julian disappeared without anybody seeing him leave.

The rum and Coke remained intact.

Bubbles had stolen seven carts.

The store only owned six.

Nobody could explain this.

Marcus stood outside.

Then he heard it.

From somewhere across the parking lot:

Clack.

Marcus looked up.

Bubbles was pushing the fucked cart toward his van.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

Even Bubbles looked annoyed.

Marcus smiled.

Not because justice had been served.

Not because the universe had restored balance.

Not because karma had punished Bubbles.

Because the fucked wheel was now outside his jurisdiction.

Bubbles stopped.

Looked at the wheel.

Kicked it.

The wheel immediately turned sideways.

Marcus watched.

“Would've preferred otherwise?”

Bubbles looked over.

“Fuck off, Marcus.”

Marcus nodded.

Fair.

He turned toward the store.

Tomorrow there would be customers.

Tomorrow humanity would remain baffling.

Tomorrow Ricky would probably find aisle four again.

Julian would still have that fucking drink.

And somewhere, somehow, Bubbles would continue operating the cart business.

Marcus could not control any of it.

But when the announcement came:

“Cleanup on aisle four.”

he would know exactly what to do.

Get the fucking mop.

And keep pushing whatever cart Bubbles hadn't stolen yet.

CLACK.

FUCKING.

CLACK.