海角大神

The grocer gets up at 5 a.m., and washes his hands.

In the dark he dresses, eats something, tries 鈥渢o clear [his] mind,鈥� and opens his email. He begins.

On another day, in other times, this is when he would have looked at numbers 鈥� order sizes maybe, sales by hour, prior-year traffic. He would have been planning, imagining innovations, thinking hard about customer demands and employee needs and competitor strategies.聽He would have been thinking hard about how he might make his store better, as he loves to do.

Editor鈥檚 note: As a public service, we鈥檝e removed the paywall聽for all our coronavirus coverage. It鈥檚 free.

But today the grocer will do none of that.

The grocer鈥檚 name is Mark Mignosa. And right now his grocery store 鈥� Fruit Center Marketplace, in Hingham, Massachusetts 鈥� could be almost any grocery store in locked-down America, and his story almost any grocer鈥檚 story. Except that his store isn鈥檛 any store.

It鈥檚 mine.

And like anybody, I need it to keep getting me food.

Will there be groceries?

By 6:30 a.m., after the emailing from home about health department updates, tactical questions from managers, and the day鈥檚 鈥渄irectives鈥� (鈥淓ven more handwashing!鈥�), he鈥檚 in the Fruit Center鈥檚 aisles. 鈥淎nd from the moment you hit the store, you鈥檙e on,鈥� he says. The doors will open at 7, instead of 8, for a newly added hour restricted to 鈥�60-and-over鈥� shoppers, and away the day will race.

Agenda: Get enough goods on the emptying shelves, keep customers safe and calm, keep employees healthy and committed, and keep himself from getting sick. Ready, set, go.

Mr. Mignosa knows what I鈥檓 thinking, because he knows everybody鈥檚 thinking it. Will our food keep showing up?

Sometime in the past few weeks, as coronavirus cases and social lockdowns spread, Mr. Mignosa watched Americans decide they could no longer trust groceries to be available when they needed them. Hence the hoarding. Almost half the stores responding to a national Progressive Grocer poll likened their customers to frantic prospectors in a river running out of gold. The Fruit Center was no exception; foot traffic rose between 100% and 200%, and average checkout tallies doubled. Business still remains at 鈥渉oliday levels,鈥� says Mr. Mignosa, which is hard to manage in the best of times, and brutally hard when the 鈥渉oliday鈥� refuses to end.

Of course his customers, like shoppers everywhere, have questions: How can we expect the food system to keep working when it seems like most people don鈥檛 go to work? Will we ever actually see toilet paper again?

According to supply chain analysts and grocery industry insiders 鈥� as well as Mr. Mignosa鈥檚 own instincts and experience 鈥� the answers are easy:

Yes, there will be toilet paper; in fact there were a few rolls yesterday. (鈥淔red found some from an industrial paper distributor. The crew we have, they鈥檙e veterans. They can find things.鈥�) It sold out. More鈥檚 coming.

And yes, the U.S. food supply chain will keep getting us food. Just not everything we鈥檙e used to.

The Fruit Center and its sister location in nearby Milton 鈥� both co-owned and co-managed by Mr. Mignosa and his brother, Michael 鈥� are about half the size of average supermarkets but still need deliveries from 30 distributors and some 200 vendors. Supply isn鈥檛 perfect, Mr. Mignosa says. 鈥淏ut honestly, I鈥檓 impressed by the product flow.鈥�

He wishes product flow were his biggest worry.

On the front lines

The morning goes both fast and slow. Fast because of so much work, 鈥渁nd with very short staff. We鈥檙e down a few people in every department.鈥� Employees have begged off due to illness, or discomfort with the exposure, or the need to care for others at home. (鈥淲hich is absolutely understandable, and what you expect,鈥� Mr. Mignosa says. 鈥淲e need people to do what鈥檚 right for them.鈥�)

Slow because it鈥檚 just a few weeks since the national emergency declaration and already you can see the accumulating weariness among the staff 鈥� the wish for the days to hurry up and the bad dream to be over. Massachusetts is among the worst-hit states so far, with more than 5,700 confirmed cases of COVID-19.聽

In the store, Mr. Mignosa likes to move 鈥� constantly circulating with short quick steps. When he stops to talk, his torso tilts forward a little, as though to catch any words that might fall between you. He鈥檚 the kind of boss who wears the same outfit the clerks and stockers do. If there鈥檚 a sudden need for baggers at the checkout, he鈥檚 the kind of boss who bags.

Before all this, says Mr. Mignosa, 鈥渆verything about our days was completely different. The whole focus would have been customer service, quality, freshness, the personal development" of employees. (The Fruit Center has 300.)聽聽

Then there鈥檚 the scramble to keep up with orders and find new sources of must-have items.聽Cleaning goods and paper products remain hard to get, along with backroom store supplies like bathroom soaps and sanitizers, and sometimes deli meats and water, 鈥渓ike before a storm.鈥� The other day there wasn鈥檛 any canola oil or dried black beans. 鈥淎 lot of comfort food is going on,鈥� Mr. Mignosa says.

Meanwhile, the store鈥檚 processes and tactics are changed almost daily. The salad bar is closed. The soup table is closed.聽To facilitate safe social distancing, the store is metered now; 50 or 60 shoppers are allowed in; after that it's one in, one out. Plastic glass barriers have been erected at checkouts, and hourly wages have been hiked $2 (as has become increasingly common industrywide). In front of the fish counter and deli counter and checkout stations, there鈥檚 blue tape on the floor to keep people at a distance. There are signs up.

By lunchtime Mr. Mignosa has no idea how many times he has washed his hands. Nor how many conversations he has had 鈥� with staffers, with customers. 鈥淎ll centered on the same issue.鈥� Sometimes it feels like the conversations are all he does.

鈥淲e鈥檙e all a little frightened, because we鈥檙e all on the front line. I don鈥檛 even want to say that because I don鈥檛 want to scare anybody, but it鈥檚 the truth.鈥� In Italy, an infected grocery clerk has died; the news reports are everywhere.

So he circulates and he talks. 鈥淚t鈥檚 the time you have with every individual that matters. They need it, they鈥檙e sacrificing so much, they鈥檙e such pros,鈥� says Mr. Mignosa. He tries to reach everybody. 鈥淐ould be three minutes, 10 minutes. Could be a couple people, could be one at a time.鈥�

Customers, too, seem hungry to talk. All day they ask Mr. Mignosa and his Fruit Center colleagues, 鈥淗ow are you? You guys doing OK?鈥� The questions are repeated so often that one might imagine they grow stale when there鈥檚 so much work to do. 鈥淣o!鈥� Mr. Mignosa says. 鈥淣o, no, we need people to ask us that. We need to ask them how they鈥檙e doing, too. With customers there鈥檚 more of a connection now than ever 鈥� because we鈥檙e all going through this together. It helps everyone.

鈥淚t helps me.鈥�

When normal is a gift

Afternoon. Mr. Mignosa is in the parking lot, where there are too many cars. He鈥檚 traffic-copping, smiling 鈥� directing people in his simultaneously decisive and self-effacing way.

Outside the main door, shoppers are lined up in the manner we鈥檝e all now learned 鈥� spread out like fence posts that got abandoned before the actual fencing went up.

I recognize some of them by sight if not name; 20 years of patronage among others just as loyal will do that. They seem calm. I ask them how they鈥檙e doing.

Good, they each say. Considering.

One couple 鈥� Christine and Alden 鈥� tell me, 鈥淭his is nice.鈥� Nice?

鈥淵eah, I feel better here,鈥� explains Christine. 鈥淚 mean this is our store. At home, the news 鈥� it can seem like nothing is working. Anywhere. And the isolation ...鈥� She looks around; the sky is gray but it鈥檚 not too cold.

鈥淗ere feels ... normal.鈥�

鈥淲ell, normal-ish,鈥� Alden revises. He changes the subject. 鈥淚 seriously want to thank these guys for their service. Is that weird?鈥� I say I know what he means.

Inside the store a fully masked customer at the checkout waves his arm to indicate his filled cart and gives me a muffled, 鈥淭his is great,鈥� the skin around his eyes crinkling with a smile you can鈥檛 see. Meanwhile people keep floating slowly through the aisles, nodding to one another as they calculate just what 6 feet looks like. There鈥檚 still no toilet paper. 鈥淥r flour or chicken stock,鈥� Mr. Mignosa says. It troubles him.

Because normal is exactly what he鈥檚 going for.

It isn鈥檛 normal, though. The shelves may look serene but the duck鈥檚 feet are windmilling frantically below the surface, just as they are behind the scenes at other supermarkets and food distributors and loading docks across the country. Mr. Mignosa can鈥檛 get his staff to leave on time. 鈥淚t鈥檚 overwhelming, the amount of load coming in [for restocking],鈥� he tells me. The store closes at 6 p.m. instead of its previous 8 p.m. to allocate hours for sanitizing and stock handling, but there鈥檚 still not enough time to get the work done, 鈥渁nd they don鈥檛 wanna leave.鈥�

Mr. Mignosa adds, 鈥淚 keep insisting it鈥檚 important to leave. You have to get rest. You have to take care of yourselves.鈥�

Does Mr. Mignosa take his own advice?

Sometime between 5:30 and 6 p.m., he goes home. He has been at the store for 11 hours.

Tomorrow he鈥檒l do it again.

鈥凌别蝉别迟鈥�

Maybe you feel about some store that鈥檚 local to you the way I feel about the Fruit Center. Especially now.

On occasion over the past two decades I feared for it, as a Whole Foods and a Trader Joe鈥檚 and a Fresh Market came to town (joining two other supermarkets already here). But the Fruit Center just kept getting better, and thrived. It鈥檚 the kind of store where if you ask a stocker for the location of the capers, he doesn鈥檛 tell you or point; he drops what he鈥檚 doing and takes you to them, no matter how many aisles away.

The store is good, is the thing. Flagrantly competent, delightful to be in, easy to count on. You can count on it without even thinking about it. You can take it for granted.

Over the phone, I tell Mr. Mignosa about the customers who wanted to thank him and his people for their service, and I hear him exhale.

鈥淵ou know,鈥� he says, 鈥渨e get a lot of that now. Seems ridiculous but I almost feel like a first responder, or a fireman, whatever. It鈥檚 not like we鈥檙e depended on for survival or anything.鈥�

Yet you kind of are, I remind him, because: food.

鈥淧eople are so grateful. It keeps you going. And when we get that support, in an email or a conversation, we immediately try to blast it around the store to everyone. It鈥檚 like: This is it. This is why. We can do this.鈥�

And of course, I know they can. I know they will. It鈥檚 a grocery store, but right about now it feels a little heroic.

Mr. Mignosa is home for the night, his phone on (鈥渁lways鈥�) but his computer off. He and his wife have three kids 鈥� two in college and a high school freshman 鈥� and now the whole family is back together in the lockdown. 鈥淢y family鈥檚 great; they鈥檙e very balanced,鈥� he says, his voice making it sound as though 鈥渂alanced鈥� might be the hardest and most precious thing in the world. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a good reset for me.鈥�

So, he resets. Does he worry about how long he and his crew can keep going? 鈥�No. I鈥檓 just not at that point; I don鈥檛 think about that. Nothing past tomorrow matters.

鈥淭here鈥檚 no doubt that we can keep this going for our community.鈥�

So tomorrow, like today, he鈥檒l do the best thing he can think to do, which is to do his job as well as he can do it.

But first, he needs some rest. So he鈥檒l go to bed.

Right after he washes his hands.

Editor鈥檚 note: As a public service, we鈥檝e removed the paywall聽for all our coronavirus coverage. It鈥檚 free.