Henry David Thoreau has gone to Costco.
This was never supposed to happen.
He came to Walden Pond because he wished to live deliberately.
To simplify.
To strip life down to its essentials.
“I wanted to live deep,” he wrote, “and suck out all the marrow of life.”
Now he is standing beneath fluorescent lights staring at 48 rolls of toilet paper.
He has questions.
Simplify, Simplify
Thoreau enters suspiciously.
The shopping cart is enormous.
“Why?”
You're going to need it.
“I need very little.”
Of course.
Thoreau famously went to Walden in 1845 to conduct an experiment in simple living.
His cabin was roughly ten by fifteen feet.
He calculated its construction cost at $28.12½.
He grew beans.
He walked.
He read.
He observed nature.
He thought deeply about how much of human life was consumed acquiring things human beings didn't actually need.
“Our life is frittered away by detail,” he wrote.
“Simplify, simplify.”
The automatic doors open.
Henry David Thoreau enters Costco.
There are seventeen televisions directly in front of him.
All are showing the same football game.
He stops.
“This is hell.”
Give it a minute.
The Pallet
Thoreau has never seen merchandise arranged like this.
Not shelves.
Pallets.
A normal store might offer ketchup.
Costco offers enough ketchup to alter a municipal water supply.
A normal store sells cereal.
Costco appears to be preparing families for a blockade.
Thoreau picks up a box.
“Why are there two bags inside?”
Value.
“Why does anyone require this much?”
It's cheaper per ounce.
Thoreau pauses.
Ah.
Now we have reached the philosophical heart of Costco.
You do not buy according to what you need.
You buy according to what would be economically irrational not to purchase.
Thoreau understands the trap immediately.
The savings require consumption.
The consumption justifies the purchase.
The purchase creates the need for storage.
The storage requires a larger house.
The larger house requires more income.
The additional income requires more labor.
Henry David Thoreau has been inside Costco for nine minutes and has reconstructed Walden.
The Free Sample
Then a woman hands him a tiny piece of pizza.
“For me?”
Yes.
“At no charge?”
Correct.
Thoreau eats it.
He continues walking.
Another person offers chicken sausage.
He accepts.
Then dumplings.
Then cheese.
Then a tiny smoothie.
Thoreau's critique of consumer capitalism has temporarily paused.
“Does one require membership to receive these?”
Technically you're supposed to be shopping.
“I am shopping.”
You haven't purchased anything.
“I am considering.”
He circles back toward the dumplings.
The Rotisserie Chicken
Then he sees it.
$4.99.
An entire cooked chicken.
Thoreau stares.
“How?”
Volume.
“But the labor.”
Volume.
“The transportation.”
Volume.
“The preparation.”
Volume.
Thoreau does the math.
This is inconvenient.
At Walden, he carefully recorded his expenses for food.
He cultivated beans.
He baked bread.
He emphasized economy.
Now a corporation has produced a hot chicken for less money than he can reasonably reproduce the process himself.
Thoreau circles it.
He does not trust it.
But he respects it.
“This is an extraordinary achievement.”
Thank you.
“And deeply suspicious.”
Also fair.
He puts one in the cart.
A Man Is Rich
Then Thoreau reaches seasonal goods.
Kayaks.
Patio furniture.
Outdoor kitchens.
A twelve-foot inflatable snowman.
A gazebo.
Thoreau stops at the gazebo.
“People purchase buildings here?”
Sort of.
He reads the price.
He looks at the display.
Then he delivers the line we've been waiting for:
“A man is rich in proportion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone.”
Beautiful.
He walks past the gazebo.
Then stops at a kayak.
He touches it.
Walden Pond would be nice from a kayak.
No.
He checks the price.
Henry.
“It is substantially reduced.”
Keep walking.
The Television
The electronics section is worse.
An 85-inch television towers over him.
“What purpose does this serve?”
Watching television.
“At this size?”
Sports.
Thoreau watches for a moment.
The image is magnificent.
He steps closer.
“Remarkable.”
No.
“I am merely appreciating the technology.”
You live in a cabin.
“It could occupy one wall.”
It is one wall.
He checks the price.
Sale.
Thoreau hates that word now.
He walks away.
Slowly.
The Membership
Then Thoreau learns he must pay to shop here.
This offends him.
“You charge admission to the market?”
Membership.
“And after paying admission, one then purchases the goods?”
Correct.
“Remarkable.”
He thinks about this.
Then we explain the executive membership.
Higher annual fee.
Cash-back reward.
Thoreau asks how much he must spend for the upgrade to pay for itself.
We calculate.
He is now doing exactly what Costco wants.
Walden Pond grows slightly darker.
The Storage Problem
Thoreau begins noticing carts.
They are full.
Paper towels.
Water.
Snacks.
Cleaning products.
Clothing.
Electronics.
Food.
Enough olive oil to embalm a Roman legion.
“Where do they put all of this?”
Pantries.
Garages.
Basements.
Extra refrigerators.
Thoreau stops.
“Extra refrigerators?”
Some people have one in the garage.
“For the excess food?”
Yes.
“And they power a second machine in order to preserve the additional food purchased because the quantity reduced its unit cost?”
Correct.
Thoreau closes his eyes.
This is going into the book.
Walden, Sponsored by Kirkland Signature
Then he discovers Kirkland.
“What is Kirkland?”
Costco's house brand.
It is everywhere.
Coffee.
Clothes.
Batteries.
Vodka.
Olive oil.
Nuts.
Golf balls.
Medication.
Dog food.
Thoreau is fascinated by the sheer range.
“You entrust one name with all these things?”
Apparently.
He finds Kirkland wool socks.
He needs socks.
Actually needs them.
Six pairs.
He only needs two.
But six cost $19.99.
He does the calculation.
No.
Thoreau.
No.
He puts them in the cart.
The Checkout
Eventually we reach the register.
The cart contains:
One rotisserie chicken.
Six pairs of socks.
Coffee.
A three-pound bag of almonds.
A blanket.
The dumplings.
A flashlight set.
And, inexplicably, a kayak paddle.
“You don't own a kayak.”
“Not yet.”
Henry David Thoreau came to Costco to observe American consumerism.
American consumerism has counterattacked.
The cashier scans everything.
Thoreau watches the total rise.
He becomes increasingly ashamed.
Then the cashier tells him how much he saved.
His mood improves immediately.
The Receipt
Outside, Thoreau examines the receipt.
It is nearly three feet long.
He looks back at the warehouse.
He has to admit something.
Costco is magnificent.
Not morally magnificent.
Logistically magnificent.
Thousands of products have arrived from across the world.
Food is abundant.
Ordinary people can purchase goods that kings could not have imagined.
Technology has made comfort astonishingly cheap.
There is something genuinely impressive here.
But there is also something strange.
An economic system capable of satisfying nearly every material need has become extraordinarily talented at creating new ones.
You arrive needing socks.
You leave wondering whether your life has been incomplete without a pizza oven.
Thoreau understands this.
The danger isn't that things are bad.
The danger is that things are good enough to keep wanting.
Live Deliberately
Back at Walden, Thoreau unloads the cart.
The chicken is excellent.
Annoyingly excellent.
He makes coffee.
He puts on the socks.
Also excellent.
He sits outside his cabin.
Quiet returns.
No fluorescent lights.
No pallets.
No samples.
No signs announcing $40 OFF.
Just the pond.
Trees.
Wind.
Water.
Thoreau opens his notebook.
He writes:
“Our life is frittered away by detail.”
He pauses.
Then adds:
“And bulk pricing.”
A week later, his phone buzzes.
COSTCO MEMBERS-ONLY SAVINGS BEGIN TODAY
Thoreau ignores it.
Another notification.
$100 OFF KAYAKS
He stares at the pond.
Then at the phone.
Then back at the pond.
“A man is rich,” he whispers, “in proportion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone.”
He waits.
Thirty seconds.
Then grabs the car keys.
Nobody is perfect.