“Town Car”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-20)

Nine o’clock.

At store 6383, a Geauga County supermarket in northeastern Ohio, our schedule had been set for many years. We were open for business from 7:00 a.m. to midnight, six days out of the week. This pattern began in our previous location, which had been down the hillside. It fit the flow of customer traffic, perfectly. Allowing us to catch early-bird shoppers, homemakers throughout the day, a predictable rush of business after regular work hours, and then the late crowd heading home. A plan that served local needs. But on Sundays we trimmed the routine. Our store locked up at 9:00 p.m., which seemed sensible for those enjoying family time and a day of rest.

To the management team, and employees, this format was welcome. But it came at a cost. One I soon learned when closing the store on weekends.

Locking the door on Sunday night felt a bit like participating in a broadcast of the Jerry Springer Show.

During the day, we were busy. Our front-end boasted over a dozen registers. We kept them staffed to maintain the egress of shoppers that had finished loading their carts. It was a point of difference for us, providing a level of customer service not seen at competing stores. I was officially scheduled 1:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. on those days, but might be brought in at noon or earlier to help handle the business blast. Since I was a salaried supervisor, it did not matter. My work was my life.

Whenever I arrived, the atmosphere of a street festival was in full effect. The aisles were crowded with friends and neighbors, buying fresh produce, bread, and snacks, along with milk and meats and household products. While sharing lively conversations with each other. Sunday shopping in particular was a genuine community event. A place to see and be seen. A real-time, face-to-face exercise in social networking.

If I had enough time between the morning church service near home, and my scheduled start-of-the-day, a nap in the parking lot could help provide extra energy. I would park in a far corner, and snooze over the steering wheel for a few minutes. This quick recharge paid dividends later in the day, when fatigue beckoned.

Our crew would be in the aisles. Restocking items, helping those wandering and looking for ideas, offering suggestions. I would be paged again and again. To the service counter, to the office, to the receiving area. To the lobby. To our child activity room. Sometimes, even to help someone outside of the store. My name was vocalized dozens of times, each hour.

This carousel ride would continue through the afternoon and into the evening, unabated. Lines would form and then be dispersed as our cashiers worked furiously to ring out patrons. One after another, after another, after another. Scanners beeping, cards being swiped, thanks being offered with good cheer. Final salutations shared as the experience came to an end. Until the need for foodstuffs and fellowship brought each customer back, in the near future.

By 8:00 in the evening, I would be numb. My face often burned. Sometimes, even the tops of my ears. A condition that I had been advised was created by elevated blood pressure. But equally, by a tingle of excitement. As the clock wound toward closing, a sense of drama filled the air. Something akin to the animal ability to sense a thunderstorm before its arrival. We were about to finish the business day.

Shoppers could feel it in their bones.

By 8:30, there would be long lines at the checkout lanes. Each minute that elapsed before closing heightened this rush. There would be zig-zags and u-turns in the aisles. Second thoughts expressed. Pondering, worry, changes-of-heart. Questions. Issues. Complaints about products gone out-of-stock. Displays knocked over. Babies crying. People joking about the mad scurry to our front-end. Building toward a crescendo. The call I awaited from our cash office, delivered over the public address system.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, YOUR CHARDON GIANT EAGLE IS NOW CLOSED!”

I would already be in the vestibule. Trembling with anticipation. Checking and rechecking my watch. Ready for what must transpire. What I loved and yet loathed. The moment of separation. Finality. The finish. The point in my day where I had to do something that could aggravate customers and place me in harm’s way. Like dancing on railroad tracks, with a freightliner approaching.

Lock the doors.

Every Sunday was guaranteed to produce at least one confrontation. Excuses and threats were plentiful. I did my best to avoid damage to our reputation. Every turn of the key was like juggling a hand grenade. I spoke as a politician. Offering apologies, nodding my head with careful concern, as pleas for late entry were offered.

“When did you start closing at nine on Sunday?” (We have done it for many years.)

“I am going to call your customer service hotline!” (I am sorry! They will also tell you that they are sorry.)

“Your watch is wrong, it isn’t nine o’clock yet!” (It is now a quarter past the hour.)

“I just need one thing!” (Of course!)

“Why did you stop going 24 hours?” (We have never had that schedule.)

“This is outrageous, my coupons are going to expire!” (I am sorry!)

“Can’t you stay open for another fifteen minutes?” (I do not set the store schedule.)

Most would simply offer a disgruntled expression, or audibly curse before turning away. Some threatened to take their business elsewhere. Others slapped the glass doors to convey their anger. Or tried to force them open. Some kicked the sidewalk. One fellow managed to reach through as another shopper was leaving. He grabbed my arm and twisted it, forcefully. An effort to see what my wristwatch read. I stammered out a warning that he was crossing a line of personal safety and conduct. Of course, he did not care.

Most memorable was a senior man who scowled at being locked out, before shuffling away in defeat. He returned quickly, at the wheel of his Lincoln Town Car. I jumped backwards as the car ran over our curb and up to the doors. My knees were weak. I expected an impact that would cause lots of damage, and create an entertaining video recording for the police.

Thankfully, he stopped with the front bumper just short of contact.

Like a grizzled super-foe emerging from retirement, he leaped out of the vehicle, thrust his loyalty card in between the door frames, and shouted “Rip this up, I’ll never use it again!”

I needed to catch my breath. We still had lines at the registers. The shutdown process was not over, yet. But I felt grateful to have avoided a crash, after closing.

The rowdy patron had returned after about a week.

My schedule read 10:00 p.m. as the time of departure for Sundays. But typically, I stayed over for an hour, or more. Often until midnight was near. Doing a final bread inventory, running deposits to the bank, then checking on our overnight crew, who would already be in the process of working our grocery order. If I was lucky, a gentle breeze might cool my face as I walked outside.

One thing always took hold as I left for the night. A desire to relax. To be free of responsibility. To flee. To escape. To drive and drive and drive, beyond Ohio, beyond my neighborhood, beyond the Midwest. To leave everything and start over.

But most of all, I wanted a beer.

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