A Day At Market Basket

A Day At  Market Basket

By

Leo de Natale

 Market Basket, aka “The Basket”,   is one of the largest and most successful supermarket chains in New England.  The stores have become the Starbucks of supermarkets – they grow like weeds.  The success has been established by an intelligent marketing strategy:  Lower your prices and They Will Come.  Their parking lots are filled to capacity because shoppers are drawn to a place where groceries are one or two dollars cheaper than competitors.  They continually offer twofers and have their in-house brand of everything at cheaper prices.  It has been a formula for success for a business started by Greek immigrants.  Their annual sales are nearly $5 billion.

My wife and I shopped there when our staple goods were running low or we spotted an irresistible sale in their weekly flier. We typically accepted the mayhem that invariably existed there seven days per week.

          But along came Covid 19.  Until this week, I hadn’t shopped at a Market Basket – or any big box supermarket- since late February.  During those first days of pandemic panic, people became animals, especially at Market Basket.  There were fisticuffs among shoppers who were fighting over paper towels and toilet paper.  Television stations filmed police arriving at The Basket to quell continuous melees at the store’s entrance.  Store shelves were stripped bare of essential commodities.  Panic abounded. The stores resembled the former Soviet Union.  We have nothing, nyet.

As most Americans  hunkered down  and began rationing their Charmin and Bounty, fear set in.   “Do I dare venture to any supermarket and be infected?” many asked.  Buying necessities underwent a transmogrification.  First, people would find a store that offered home delivery, a solution that  sustained a quick death.  From a few days’ wait, the service was stretched to weeks.  I have one friend who waited a month for delivery.  What about food expiration dates?  Then along came curbside delivery allowing grocery pickup and avoiding the cooties inside the store.  That, too, was evanescent.  Employees quit or were laid off.  No more curbside.

Weeks turned into months and for many it was time to bite the bullet.  Armed with masks and rubber gloves,  shoppers would, with dread, venture to Market Basket.  There were news stories how isolated cases of Covid 19 virus had infected and killed employees.  Fear and panic exacerbated and was stoked by state and federal officials warnings of the dangers that lay with shopping.  Must wear masks, must observe social distancing, blah, blah, blah.

By June, people were impatient.  They wanted all businesses opened.  Supermarkets had been given special status, but thousands of men and women wanted haircuts!  There were so many long-haired ladies turning   completely gray. Men began resembling cavemen.  Open the salons and barbershops, goddammit.

With our staples running dangerously low, I took the plunge.  I drove to a Market Basket that purportedly was less busy than others.   It was about 30 minutes from home.  I arrived at 8:30 when most elderly were leaving – they were allowed special  hours to reduce virus exposure.

Equipped with disposable mask and rubber gloves, I ventured inside. All Market Baskets are similarly designed. Various groceries are located in familiar locations. The aisles had signs suspended from ceilings that demarcate where various groceries were located. The deli, meat and fish are always located at the back wall. There were, however, visible changes. The aisles had large red-arrowed floor signs designating one-way directions. I was looking for baked beans and, whoops, I was pushing my shopping cart the wrong way. I wonder if they had traffic cops railing against misguided shoppers. “Wrong way,” they’d shout. “If you want your tortilla chips and chili sauce you have loop around to Aisle 7.” I soon found myself placing the cart in reverse and walking backwards.

Traversing down the aisles I noticed there were still many elderly customers.  As I meandered down the aisles I said to myself, “Shit, this place is filled with geezers.” And then I realized I, too, was in this age category.  That’s the problem with aging.  You look around and say I’m not like “them”.  I’m in good shape for a septuagenarian.  Many times it’s difficult to identify with old, infirmed people.  In my self-deluding mind, I’m somewhere in my 50’s.  Not.

Nevertheless, I navigated through the supermarket and found most items on my shopping list – Ginger Snap cookies were sold out and my favorite marinara sauce wasn’t available. The deli counter was crowded. Little social distancing. My ticket number was 53; the frenetic meat slicer guys were waiting on number 40. A line too long. There’d be no mortadella, proscuito ( or “pros-cute-o to non-Italians) or capicola ordered today. I had to defer on my Italo-American fix this week.

Shoppers were maintaining  social distancing and I was concentrating on locating the necessary foodstuffs.   I suspended the angst so many people are experiencing in all  supermarkets or  such stores as Home Depot.  This particular store on this particular day wasn’t terribly crowded and I functioned with few distractions.  When I left the checkout counter and returned to the parking lot a revelation struck.

I’d spent 35 minutes in a place that is supposedly unsafe and potentially lethal if you contract the Covid 19 virus.  The ride home was filled with what-ifs.  Did I get too close to that old-timer in aisle 15  who was purchasing  Poligrip?   Was someone breathing on my Brussel sprouts in  the produce department?   How many  persons had pawed the egg cartons?

Perhaps the most insidious aspect of this Plague is the fear and angst  produced when you’ve been told to self-isolate.   The officials in Massachusetts have assume the role of Grim Reaper.  Live your life but at your own risk!   Ageism has been one of the most elemental fear factors stoked by these bureaucrats.   For me, it came to a point where I said, screw it, there are certain activities we humans must continue to perform.  And buying groceries is one of them.  We have to exercise a certain degree of caution but, sweet Jesus,  let us live our lives!

 After pumping myself with such positive thinking, I hopped into my car.  An onslaught of the recurring curse of this  pandemic unfortunately got the better of me.   While driving, I  experienced an unclean feeling  and rushed home.  I immediately removed my mask, disrobed in the garage, left my clothing by the washing machine and headed straight to the shower. 

This is the life we now lead where battling an omnipresent, lethal virus makes us cower daily. 

To paraphrase Hamlet, To mask, or not to mask, that is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler to stay at home and to suffer the slings and arrows of isolation, or drive to Market Basket and buy 2 for $5 Pepperidge Farm Bread loaves.