The problem with the explosion of this kind of discretionary shopping is that the same logistical resources that make this spike possible are also needed in other parts of the economy. The goods necessary to make school lunches—a vitally important civic function—might not be available for reasons that have nothing to do with how much food is theoretically available. Experienced workers and truck space and loading docks and time itself are not limitless resources. In a system asked to function beyond its capacity, if the distributor of hundred-dollar throw pillows can pay more for access to trucking capacity than a local food distributor that serves schools can, then their pillows go on the truck.

Currently, these resources get allocated according to little other than profit. Thinking about how necessary something is in the lives of everyday Americans, or how helpful its replenishment would be to people in genuine need, is the kind of resource triage that generally happens only after a natural disaster, and sometimes not even then. Somewhere along the line, powerful people in both business and government decided that the weaknesses that have caused the near-collapse of the supply chain are things Americans should just live with. For example, even before the pandemic, many truckers looked for work elsewhere instead of hauling goods out of container ports, because port trucking is particularly brutal and poorly compensated work. Instead of directly addressing this type of obvious problem in how goods are moved, America’s government and media so often have simply pleaded with Americans to spend more money—to create jobs, to revitalize the economy, to save the country.