The Brother Love Shopping Spree Extravaganza

After 15 months' worth of grocery subsidies ($4,300+) pile up on his Link card, my brother Phil embarks on a determined quest to share his good fortune.

Unlike the endless array of made-up occasions—National Spicy Guacamole Day and National Family PJ Day were both yesterday, for example—today’s the first anniversary of an event you never heard of:

The Brother Love Shopping Spree Extravaganza.

Its host was my brother Phil, about whom I have written in depth over the past six months.

If you’ve not yet made Phil’s acquaintance, here’s my introductory piece, Brother Love: The Other Side of the Tracks, from my Fall 2020 visit to his tent in the woods.

Typing “Brother Love” into this Substack’s search box will pull up 10 other pieces in the series, including Brother Love: Super 8 Sequester, about the April 2021 night I helped Phil prepare to check into a drug rehabilitation facility. A month ago came my most recent post about Phil.

Phil’s senior year high school yearbook photo, 1984. A standout wrestler, football player and pole vaulter, Phil went on to play four years of Division III football.

Most of those essays are filled with the anguish and anxiety that are either front-and-center or encroaching on Phil’s days as he grapples with his heroin addiction and alcoholism.

This story, however, is a blessed departure—a simple celebration of newfound abundance and my brother’s determined desire to share it with others:

November 15, 2022

After numerous visits to various State of Illinois offices in recent weeks, Phil finally secures his Link card this morning—much to his amazement and delight. The $280/month of governmental grocery support had accumulated for some 15 months, rising to $4,360.

His first reaction is to call me and a few others and try to coordinate a shopping spree. Neither his buddy Bill nor nephew Brennan is available, which stings and disappoints Phil.

“That hurts,” he texts, followed by garbled wording that’s more the result of his voice-to-text challenges than anything else. “Every time someone helps me Put your little check in my arms every dollar bill And when I finally get a chance to help people won’t let have hurt that way.”

Bottom line: it’s just me and Phil heading to Costco about 2 p.m. after I pick him up from the Forest Park CTA terminal. He’s done his panhandling in Oak Brook on this cold, snowy day, gathering enough cash to buy his three pints of Western Sun vodka at Famous Liquors (he introduces me to the cashier as his “little brother Matthew”) as well as whatever he’s acquiring this evening from his drug connection.

At the Costco, before going in, Phil texts a few caseworkers who have been helping him and lets them know that he got the Link card. As we walk in, Phil suggests I get two carts, but I let him know one was enough. Turns out, that is barely true.

Phil gives me a budget of $500, then coaxes, implores, demands and cheers me on as I gradually get into the shopping-spree-for-free spirit. Lots of snacks, some staples like olive oil, bread, butter and coffee (including, aptly enough, Two Brothers) and within 45 minutes the gigantic cart is overflowing.

The most fitting purchase of all: Two Brothers coffee beans. Months later, it was the last bag that I opened. After I quit coffee in May, some of this bag’s contents remain.

My effort, which includes return visits to shelves for foodstuffs like additional three-packs of Chex cereal (variety pack—corn, rice and wheat!), meets with his approval.

As we stand in line, done with our aisle crisscrossing, he says, “This makes me so happy.”

Phil tells me the Link card’s code: 2468.

In unison, we both then declare, “Who do we appreciate?”

Satisfied that I have sufficiently crammed the cart, Phil lets me approach the check-out aisle.

The overall tally comes to about $430, with Phil’s own portion representing only about $50 or $60 worth of frozen meats and Chinese cuisine.

He lets me know that the card, now with slightly under $4,000 in value, is better off staying in my possession.¹

So there it abides, snug in my wallet, safe and secure for whatever comes next in Phil’s shopping future. Our 2 ½-hour visit ends in typical fashion, with me dropping him off at the Oak Park Avenue train stop.

This time, though, in addition to his duffel bag loaded up with his usual collection of booze and other sundries, Phil trudges off with a heavy load of groceries.²

1. I wound up getting this card back to Phil within a few days; he was able to safeguard it in his travels. Over the next few weeks, he treated others to shopping sprees—and insisted on doing a few more mini-versions of this outing with me as well. While not what the Illinois Department of Human Services has in mind when it issues cards to those who qualify, Phil marches to his own beat.

2. In an interesting twist, two nights ago during a visit with Phil at his apartment in Chicago, he mentioned that he needs to reactivate his Link card. It’s been a month since it replenished on a monthly basis; next time I see him, I will explore helping him get it reactivated.

Also the other night, Phil sent me home with a shopping bag full of dozens of food bars and the like, items he’s received while panhandling but which he’s unable to eat because he has no teeth. I have added them to my stash of items to give to other panhandlers. This could be the start of a new holiday-time tradition, a variation on the infamous fruitcake that keeps getting re-gifted.