It’s dark and rainy as I pull into the parking lot at the Market Basket in Middleton. It’s 5:28 a.m.
I’m going food shopping with the old people.
I’m not the first one here. There are about 50 cars outside. A steady stream of seniors hurriedly shuffle into the grocery store. Market Basket, like most supermarket chains, is opening its stores early — 5:30 to 7 a.m. Tuesdays through Thursdays — for the elderly during this coronavirus crisis.
The non-elderly are wisely home in bed, sleeping like babies. Chronologically-challenged folks like 66-year-old me are unrealistically frantic that Gov. Charlie Baker will issue a shelter-in-place order and we’ll be stuck in our homes without bread, milk and Geritol.
So here I am, walking toward the store, trying to squeeze my mitts into too-small vinyl gloves that are specially designed to make us look foolish and reject nasty germs. I grab a cart and make a beeline for the toilet paper aisle. Everyone else seems to have the same idea. THEY HAVE TOILET PAPER! Not much, but enough for those of us here now. One woman, sporting a stylish face mask, is standing in the aisle, holding an 8-pack of the prized commodity to her bosom. She’s sobbing. She’s so happy.
I can relate. I’m so excited I nearly have a bowel movement right here in the paper goods aisle. My wife and I were down to our last roll. That pile of leaves in the backyard was starting to look like a viable option. After all, what’s a few twigs and prickly branches up the wazoo if it means defeating this COVID-19 menace. Plus, my wife has mad decorating skills and would have enjoyed finding the perfect Pottery Barn container to hold the leaves.
I grab two 4-packs and two rolls of paper towels. No hoarding on my part.
(My brother-in-law bought four commercial rolls of TP online, which he guesstimates is about 12 normal rolls. He said they double as arm weights because his gym is closed.)
My fellow old people in Market Basket smile and are cordial. They are careful to not get too close to a fellow shopper, since health experts insist our demographic is more vulnerable to catching the virus.
Bollocks! I’m a man on a mission. I move pretty well for an elderly person. I rush toward the produce section. Bagged salad is on sale — two for $5 — and I want to get my share before some cretin beats me to it. Caesar is my favorite. They have plenty. In hindsight, that recent E. coli contamination of romaine lettuce doesn’t seem so bad.
Red peppers are on my shopping list. My wife, who also has mad cooking skills, wants to prepare a chicken dish with peppers and baby spinach. But who knows how many people have touched these vegetables. I risk it, and bag a couple. I can wash the peppers while my wife insists I wash my hands for the zillionth time. To honor Kenny Rogers, I wash my hands while singing “Ruby, Don’t Bring Your COVID-19 to Town.”
I’m on a roll. Eggs, butter, milk. Cheerios and Raisin Bran. Crackers and cheese. Bar soap and razor blades. And coffee. Lots of coffee.
But no hand sanitizer or disinfectant wipes. You can’t find those anywhere.
After 30 minutes, I’m ready to check out. Woo-hoo! There are only two shoppers ahead of me in line. The man in front removes the protective glove on his right hand to slide his debit card into the machine.
God bless the employees. They are special, spending all day restocking shelves and going face-to-face with customers who might unknowingly have the virus. A lovely young lady rings me up — 70 bucks and change — and I hand her four $20s. She places the change on my vinyl glove and I shovel it into my pocket.
It appears that no matter how bad this pandemic becomes, vital businesses such as supermarkets, pharmacies and liquor stores will remain open.
We’re well stocked with food, drugs and drink and ready for whatever the governor throws at us. We’ve enjoyed daily hikes, rides on bikes or walks on the beach. But now that we have toilet paper, we can hunker down for as long as it takes.
Well, within reason. Thank goodness we still have all those leaves.
