This is Shelby. She cheerfully rang me through at Mississippi Market this past Tuesday. She is one of the “essential” workers (along with the others at the market I saw that day stocking shelves, helping out, wiping things down—all of them women, by the way) that are keeping what’s left of our economy going, keeping sustenance in our pantries, on our tables and in our guts. These stores operated by these people are the indispensable link between producers large and small to get the fruits of their labors to consumers.
These are the workers that we took for granted in our daily lives, no matter how enlightened we thought we were, no matter if we held these jobs ourselves at some point in our lives and understood fundamentally how necessary they are. We moved on, got busy, and took them for granted. We did.
There must be truths that come out of this pandemic, and here is one: We should realize that all of these jobs (including other service jobs we take for granted) require a living wage. Let me repeat that: All of these jobs require a living wage. We realize now how important they are. Let’s not forget it. No CEO deserves to earn thousands of times more than their average employee. Jeff Bezos doesn’t need any more money. But his Amazon warehouse workers sure do.
Another item: Healthcare is a right. I will repeat that, too: Healthcare is a right. I shouldn’t have to explain that given our current situation. Universal coverage. Whether that is Medicare for all or some hybridized system (i.e., a restored Affordable Care Act (pre-No. 45) with its enforceable mandate and public option able to negotiate drug prices) it does not matter. Going forward, everyone gets insurance in this country that does not have to be linked to their job. (And, as of yesterday, linked to the mercy of our psychopathic president who could have reopened Affordable Care Act exchanges for people to get health insurance during this pandemic, but won’t because people know the program as “Obamacare.”)
But hey! Back to Shelby. I noticed the plexiglass between her and where a customer would drift through and linger on the way to make a payment at the card reader. “Quite the change,” I said as I unloaded my cart onto the conveyer. “Yes,” she said with a smile. “You have a member number, right?” Great customer service, even during a pandemic.
“Yes,” I said, and read it off the card I would normally hand over to be scanned. I pulled out my credit card and stuck it in the reader and moved to the end of the line to bag my own groceries.
I asked how things are going. “Pretty good,” she said. “Our management has been really proactive getting a system in place. There really are no protocols out there to follow.”
I thought about that. Aside from “social distancing” mandates and recommendations based on the knowledge from scientists on how the virus spreads, there are no specific “official guidelines” issued from any health agency—local, state or federal—as to how a grocery store should operate during this crisis.
But it seems Mississippi Market is, indeed, putting some real thought into it.
Earlier in March…
Customer moods and store planning were in different places earlier in March and as it progressed. A visit to this same Mississippi Market about two weeks ago was to pick up some chicken-and-rice soup for my wife and daughter, both ailing from colds (just regular colds, people). The situation was slightly manic, as the state geared up for a shutdown of sorts while No. 45 and his administration continued to fiddle and deny. Some customers (yes, even wholesome co-op customers) were in hoard mode. Any soup that contained chicken broth was gone. I went to pick up a bag of Red Mill semolina flour for a pasta I had planned—sold out. There I saw an older couple crowding out others waiting to scoop flour from the bulk bins. The husband (I assume) noticed what was happening and then stepped aside, while his wife continued to work. I waited for the people ahead of me to get what they needed, before scooping what I wanted. It was when I grasped the scoop handle and began to bag my flour that I thought this was not a great way to maintain hygiene at the start of a pandemic. We went home and made our own soup from stock and used some dried Creamette spaghetti noodles sitting in the pantry. (Other grocery stores, of course, were experiencing the exact same thing, with some truly unruly customers, as everyone tried to figure things out).
We cook in our house down to sub-recipes, so we had enough on hand already to make do until the madness of that first week—two if necessary—after Gov. Walz announced on March 15 the first stay-at-home and “social distancing” recommendations, closing schools and limiting restaurants/bars to take-out or delivery.
I went to Cub Foods in Roseville on Saturday, March 21 (which is not far from our home in St. Paul’s North End) after doing a drive-by and seeing the parking lot not full, drivers leaving spaces between their parked cars. Inside, gone from the shelves were boxed dinners, pre-made sauces, all cereals, all bread. And toilet paper, of course, gone (oddly, bathroom cleaner was still available in an adjacent aisle. One might think that with as much time folks plan to spend in the bathroom…). A run on coffee, also. Customers were still awkward about social distancing, most trying, some, not so much. Employees busily stocking, trying to be helpful despite the fatigue in their eyes. At checkout, I went to lane open with a woman in her late 50s, early 60s, large glasses, her hair tied into a ponytail. She probably came up to my shoulder at best. I set my groceries on the conveyor belt and stepped forward to the small counter with the card reader, conscious of not leaning into her space.
“How are things going for you?” I asked after we exchanged greetings.
“Oh, pretty good today,” she said, scanning my goods and weighing the fresh produce. “Yesterday, I was in tears, though. It was a hard day. A hard week. Some customers, not so nice. And then you work all these hours and try to buy something for yourself and there’s nothing left on the shelf. So I was having a hard time yesterday. But then there was a customer who was so nice and complimented us and I started bawling. And she was so understanding. It’s been hard, but today is alright.”
“Well, we sure appreciate—“ I started to say, but was interrupted by a man in line two lanes over who shouted something unintelligible at a tall woman with long dark hair pulled back wearing a Cub Foods shirt who was overseeing the flow of all the checkout lanes. She had been very nice to me on a recent visit. She was having none of what the man was saying to her or the cashier, and told him to mind his tone. I looked back to the cashier helping me, and I could see that she had very noticeably tensed up. When I looked back to that other lane, a store manager had stepped into the cashier’s station and cooled the situation.
“That we don’t need more of,” my cashier said. “What was it you were saying?”
“That we all do appreciate what you’re doing for us here at the store,” I said. “It’s important work and people are realizing that now. So, thank you.”
“Well, thank you very much,” she said. “We’ll be here. Thank you.”
She moved on to the next customer and I bagged my groceries. The manager who had taken over as cashier two lanes over, a fellow about sixty with four-days worth of stubble, was now talking to the supervisor in the exchange with the customer. “It’s OK,” I could hear him say to her. “You just can’t let someone like that get under your skin.”
“I know,” she said. He was just…”
“It’s alright,” he said. “Just take some deep breaths…”
Let me repeat this one more time: We do not pay these people enough for their work.
An evolving new normal
Tuesday, at least, with the sun being out for two straight days, breaking what seemed a run of overcast days stretching back to October 2019, the mood outside on an earlier walk seemed lighter for everyone—but not without tension. The required stutter-step moves like a running back finding a hole in the line to achieve the suggested distance we need to maintain between each other remains an unnerving, unnatural exercise.
When one walks into Mississippi Market these days, one is greeted immediately by the sign that says “Practice Social Distancing.” For the most part, while few were in the store, people did that. The aisles aren’t wide, but not cramped. If someone’s stocking a shelf, one stepped as wide as possible and everyone was polite.
It wasn’t crowded on that day (March 31). We stopped because the parking lot had few cars. But, Shelby said, it has been crazy in there. I remembered. Evidence of that remained—no flour, and other baking necessities picked dry, some toilet paper on the shelf, but down to the last. Gaps in canned tomatoes and sauces. Yet fresh produce was plentiful as ever. Canned goods and soups mostly replenished.
It was evident a routine was being established to find that new normal. Bulk flour was smartly pre-bagged and the bags set in the bins. While many of the basic flours were gone (along with all the branded stuff sold on the shelf), I was still able to grab a couple pounds of organic bread flour. As I shopped, I noticed the floor as one rounds the aisle to the deli counter are taped squares each six feet apart—indicators of where one should stand as one waits with their groceries for checkout, should the line grow that large. The squares and lines lead around the corner to the checkout. With the other precautions, and the glass at the registers, it was an impressive effort that, at the very least, reminded people that something serious is going on, and people are taking it seriously.
Shelby scanned away and I started to bag my groceries. “I’m glad I have a job,” she continued, adding that her mother worked as a server in a Wisconsin supper club and thus, did not have one at the moment. “My dad still has his, so they’re fine. We’re lucky.”
“Well, we all sure appreciate you and everyone here in the store doing what you’re doing,” I said. “This is tremendously important.”
“Thank you very much,” she said, and proceeded to grab another bag to place some items. “Receipt?”
“Just toss it in the bag,” I said.
“Have a great rest of your day and see you next time,” she said. With people like Shelby, her coworkers and the many others on our supply lines serving us life’s necessities with strength and grace, I feel much better.
