Predawn Wegmans was a quirky time and place, a sort of alternate universe populated by nightshift workers, stoners, drunks, insomniacs, eccentrics, and lonely people who wanted someone to talk to.
When we were open 24 hours a day, before shopping hours were cut because of coronavirus, we had our post-midnight regulars.
There was the woman who bicycled to the store in the dark, buying only as much as she could carry. And the handsome young cop. And the taciturn woman who brought us trays of homemade cookies and brownies at Christmas.
There was the older couple who collected just a few groceries before spending the next hour at the lottery machines, as if captivated by an action movie.
And the man who insisted on wrapping each item in plastic produce bags. And the man who made bad puns and talked of books he had written about the Adirondacks. And the man who, coping with mental illness, would fill two baskets with groceries and soda. We would help him outside, where he would wait patiently for the cab to take him home.
Many of our regulars shopped in the wee hours because that’s when paychecks, disability or other support checks were deposited into their bank accounts. (“My money comes in at 1,” one woman would say. “Is it 1 yet?”)
It took me awhile to like some of these people. At first, I thought the woman with the big glasses, who wandered the store munching on nuts or candy from the bulk foods section, was stealing. But she always paid for her snacks, along with one or two slices of bologna and a few grapes.
“You’re breaking the bank tonight!” one of the night cashiers would joke. The cashier, the person with whom I was friendliest at the store, is now on leave. Several health conditions make her a target for the virus.
I miss her. I miss our nighttime regulars. Well, maybe not the drunks or the guy who goes ballistic when we’re out of bialys. But most of them.
I hope they’re okay.