Putnam's Revenge

On the decline of social capital and community.

Note: This story began as a Note that I fired off on the go. The reactions to it were so strong that I felt encouraged to expand it into a piece. I’m making the part that appeared on Notes free. Please consider picking up a discounted paid subscription today. I’m running a sale until this Wednesday, October 23. Thanks so much for reading Contra.

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My son recently came down with a bad bout of pneumonia. He’s four. It’s been very painful and frightening for him and concerning for us, frankly, because it’s the first time he’s fallen so ill since he was born. There’s also a good chance it’ll spread to our other kids.

I am in line at the pharmacy. The doctor prescribed amoxicillin three times a day for two weeks. At the register is a tall man, probably in his 30s, and an elderly woman. I assume it is his mother or grandmother.

You’d think it’s sweet, a man helping an old lady, but he sort of just mutters to himself and her, standing about awkwardly. His clothes look grimy. Meanwhile, the woman has no idea what she’s doing. She’s utterly incapable of operating the touchpad. The man is not helpful. He seems to try to haggle or complain to the clerk. He groans and whines about something.

The line behind me is growing. I think about my son. His medicine. I try to be patient. You don’t know what they’re dealing with.

But the two make no appreciable progress toward checking out and don’t seem bothered by the lengthening column of people. They linger at the counter for at least ten more minutes. The man passively looms over the old woman, watching.

Their eyes don’t register anyone around them when they finally leave. The grimy clothes suddenly bother me a lot.

The line shuffles forward. I’m thinking about my son. His medicine.

Next, a woman well into middle age insists on buying a six-pack of soda and other random items with her numerous medications. Junk food beside prescription drugs.

She places all of it on the tiny counter that’s intended for quick pickup. Then she also starts to complain about something or become confused by something and a transaction that should take just moments goes on and on and on.

A big purse on the counter now, and she begins to rummage, slowly, in a carefree manner, for money to pay for her junk food and medication.

Some of the people around me begin to groan and sigh. If the woman heard them, she does not betray any indication of care. It’s as if she’s in a world of her own. The line is getting longer.

A lady behind me complains about the back-to-back delays caused by these people. I look over my shoulder. Her uniform bears the name of a local mechanic. She smiles at me. “This happens all the time here.” She’s getting blood pressure medication for someone else. I think about my son and how he’s been crying every night with a fever.

After a while the woman takes her soda and drugs and leaves. She walks by the line but does not appear to notice anyone, as if everyone else around her is just a shadow. She clutches the bottles of brown liquid close like it’s her baby.

I’ve experienced plenty of moments like this. That day was just especially bad. But I notice this sort of thing a lot these days—people utterly oblivious to those around them, utterly inconsiderate as if they had never left their own homes.

Oblivious people are nothing new. However, the scale at which this occurs seems new, at least in my lifetime. What happened? There are a few possible explanations.