ilyĀIMY

Somehow there is nothing more dystopian than our local Safeway. Kristen and I have been shopping there regularly for as long as we’ve Lived in the area. Even as Mosno decided he preferred the local Giant, and Amy and Nate decided it was worth their while (and their money) to go to Kroger, and I’ve discovered the generally cheaper prices, better produce and beautifully wide aisles of Lidl, somehow, we keep ending up back at the Safeway on Route 40.

Maybe it’s just so we can keep our finger on the pulse of how our local urban infrastructure is devolving, but we’ve watched prices inflate, the number of employees dwindle, the average age of the goods, well, age… and it’s my local symbol for the hopeless horror that is the slow failing of lower-middle-income Life in America.

Hyperbole? Maybe.

It began with the first Trump Ascendency where I felt like I needed to be more personable to everyone to show I wasn’t One of Them. It was when I first became aware that having long GREY hair rather than long BROWN hair meant old white man redneck rather than peaceful hippie and I felt like I needed to keep dispelling the sense of poison spreading out from around me. Engaging the people at the cash register, helping little old ladies getting things off the top shelf, strangely enough I LIKE people and I enjoy interacting with them.

And then COVID came and another layer of fear descended upon everyone. Being in a primarily Black area meant most of the other people at the Safeway were taking the threat seriously and masks became common (we still see them pretty frequently). It made it harder to communicate, impossible to smile. And that was when they started clearly leaning towards automated checkouts and never looking back. Over the years, we watched familiar faces vanish and watched the few remaining employees get more and more stressed and stretched.

I’m still grateful for my human interaction, but it’s gotten harder to come by.

We’d go through the aisles with frequent shortages and empty shelves and watch as the prices of things climbed and climbed. I remember the first feeling of wondering if there’d eventually be a time when buying roast beef for sandwiches, or eggs for breakfast, were going to be a distant memory.

I acknowledge it’d be healthier, but “Remember when we could afford to buy meat?” is NOT something I ever want to say.

Today was a weight. Parking is always absurd, and people are less and less kind to one another. It’s not even just fancy new cars parked like assholes across multiple spaces now. Numerous cars just scattered carelessly across lines, diagonally “parked” across up to four spaces. Walking in, will there be carts? Will there not? Will the carts be locked down? They removed small baskets years ago so even if we were just planning a small shopping trip we’ve got to find a cart. A new security gate at the entrance. We’re greeted with broken freezers and empty shelves the moment we walk in. Presumably the recent vegetable recalls have something to do with the absence of all the premade salads and “freshly cut vegetable” platters. Empty case after empty case until you reach the overpriced trail mixes and nuts, all of which have doubled in price since the pre-COVID days. I never expected the prices to go DOWN, but inexorable creep has put all of those snacks out of our reach.

We can’t find the salad dressing we want. Or at least, we can’t find any that’s not well past it’s expiry date.

I’m not sure if there’d been a power outage or what, but as we wander the aisles it’s clear that a LOT of refrigerator cases are out of service. Multiple uncleaned-up spills, wet floor caution cones rather than mops are in evidence. $7 cartons of eggs, empty shelves where all the fresh bagels and store-baked breads used to Live. Expired hummus. Some of it’s actually fuzzy.

There are 15 cash registers, none are open. There are no humans checking people out and we’re working our way through self-serve when an older man tips the balance into the staff opening one lane. Scanning items, beeping, bagging, half-listening to the woman at the register explaining the arcane small print to the man about how he hasn’t used the app on his phone so he can’t have the sale price and he seems confused and lost, pulling grapes back off the conveyer. He clearly doesn’t understand why he’s being told he can’t buy grapes.

We pay and wheel our groceries out, both realizing there’s no music playing. Does the silence make the weight heavier? Kristen mentions that she felt the social heaviness of it all and I told her I was already composing the Journal entry about it. We get in the car and just as Kristen’s about to pull forward (pull through!!!) a Lexus races into the spot recently occupied by my leg and my door and “parks” in the space next to us, the space in front of him, AND the space in front of us.

We get out of the parking lot. We drive home saying “no thanks” to the squeegee boys at the intersection and make our way home, feeling like things are simply broken.