People who would never dream of flinging McDonald’s bags or empty Budweiser cans out car windows have no qualms about littering in supermarkets. Even for the law-abiding, the act of leaving things in wrong places is part of the shopping experience.
Miscreants will select a family-sized package of hamburger, decide several aisles later they don’t want or can’t afford it, and leave it to turn gray in the cereal section. I have found fish in the marshmallows, marshmallows soaking in the lettuce bin and lettuce drying out with the muffins.
But the most common castoff is the shopping list.
I come across lists on the floor, in carts, on shelves and once stuck to the bottom of my shoe. Post-it Notes, as in the shoe specimen, are a favored medium. List makers also write on envelopes, company notepads, index cards, personalized stationery, legal paper, old receipts, campaign literature and junk mail.
These scraps of paper have become a small obsession for me in an otherwise monotonous job. I’ve collected hundreds.
By the end of last year, though, I started to suspect that the paper shopping list was on its way out. People had begun using their phones or the Wegmans online app to track their grocery needs. They sent their lists as email or texts. Some used spreadsheets.
Then two things happened. First, Wegmans revised its app, to the consternation of many. And then, of course, came the coronavirus.
In the current upheaval, I’m sensing a return to the old-fashioned format. Suddenly, I’m finding several discards each night. (Not to worry. I sanitize after retrieving them.)
Have the lists changed? I might be reading into it, but they seem to mirror the anxiety I see on the faces of shoppers. Items are crossed out repeatedly after customers find them on shelves. Toilet paper never appears. Who needs to be reminded?
I used to see personal notes. “Flowers for Mom” or “sweets 4 John.” These endearments have faded as people live in isolation.
Shoppers are in a rush and they’re focused on the basics. Milk. Eggs. Canned or frozen vegetables. Mac and cheese.
There’s a group, however, that disdains efficiency. These are the people who savor their trip to Wegmans as the only outing they’re allowed. Despite the crowds of masked customers, despite all the signs about social distancing and purchase limits, they wander the store at their leisure. Grocery lists are anathema.
The other day, just a few minutes after our 7 a.m. opening, I noticed a couple with a half-filled cart. They had already picked up two six-packs of beer.
“You know,” I reminded them, “you can’t buy those until 8 a.m.”
“That’s okay,” the woman answered, turning toward the ice cream freezers. “We’re going to be here awhile.”