The People of Market Basket

The future of the country rests in their hands, in their carts, and in their Market Basket shopping bags.

If there is hope, it’s at Market Basket.

For those of you outside of New England, Market Basket is a chain of grocery stores in Eastern Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Rhode Island and Maine. Unlike other grocery stores, like Wegman’s or Whole Foods, Market Basket chooses the poorest, scruffiest, and most blue-collar locations to build their stores. If you live in a town where people wait for the bus, change their own oil, and have their names on their shirts, you probably have a Market Basket. Their parking lots have the highest count of Trump stickers in blue New England.

Once inside, the store announces itself. Market Basket charges less than their competitors, has people who have made thirty year careers in the produce, and has baggers for all of the cashiers. The aisles are wide, the lights bright, and the tomato cans lined up, at attention.

The People of Market Basket are adults. They have kids and parents and are in charge of the orange slices for the under ten soccer game on Saturday morning. They know how much money is in their checking account, down to the dollar. They come to the store after work with a list and the weight of expectations. They buy their diapers at Market Basket, along with Ensure, Pedialite, and steak tips for dinner on Friday. The People of Market Basket aren’t looking for surprises, samples, or a quiet coffee date with a stranger. They come to the store in slippers and sweatpants, they bring their dogs, their kids need their faces washed, and they didn’t put their make-up on; they are adults trying to meet the expectations that have been placed on their shoulders.

Market Basket understands that. Nobody walking in that door needs entertainment or novelty. They just need that Polar Orange Crush that Dad likes so much. The nursing home will put it in the staff refrigerator so he get a can with dinner. Better get a second six pack just in case.

It’s a store for Massholes, started in Tewksbury, and headquartered in Chelsea. Walk through and find nurses, janitors, substitute teachers, bartenders, and the guys that pump your heating oil in January. The future of the country rests in their hands, in their carts, and in their Market Basket shopping bags.

Hedge funds and global conglomerates own the rest of the stores in the area. Those stores have one quarter of the staff and a drunk doofus robot that spins and “cleans.” Two cashiers are open, without baggers, but the automatic checkout is ready for your shoplifting. Sometimes the Angus Ground Beef is green. Sometimes the Fresh House Salsa is popping out its plastic. Sometimes large brown eggs are two dollars too expensive. But they have plenty of skin care products and gluten free cookies. Just use the self serve cashiers.

The People of Market Basket, the Adults, they didn’t come to the store by accident. They know why they are there, what they want, and where it is on the weekly circular. These are the same people who want to bring Dad’s R.V. to Acadia this summer. These are the people who vaccinated their kids. These are the people who file their taxes within 48 hours of getting the W-2. These are the people who not only shop there, they work there. They are the Peeps.

Arthur T.

So, in 2014, when the hedge funds sparked a family fight over cashing out, the People of Market Basket sat up and paid careful attention. And when the word came out that Arthur T. Demoulas was getting forced out and Unilever was getting swept in, they waited. Then the employees walked out and the message became clear. The boycott began.

For that summer, all of the stores were empty. None of the trucks delivered and none of the customers walked in. A customer revolt, worthy of Tolstoy and Dickens, emptied the stores of some of the most loyal customers in the country. The insurrectionists waited. They believed, as sure as Dunkin Donuts makes coffee, their customers would return.

But they didn’t.

Then, with their hats in hands, their faces begrimed, and pants soiled, the insurrectionists brought back Arthur T., took the money that he offered, and disappeared into the Texas Country Clubs that they had leaked out of. The milk returned and the forty-year’s-of-service managers walked back in. Then the People of Market Basket returned.

The People of Market Basket are Americans. Our lives continue after our jobs end; our jobs are so menial and so essential that we can’t be fired. We have had the privilege of ignoring those folks in Washington. We don’t read the papers. We don’t watch CNN or Fox. We don’t spend much time on Twitter. We “heart” our friends’ dogs on Instagram and we send off birthday wishes on Facebook. We don’t have time for that other shit. We have to grade the papers by tomorrow, bring Dad to the doctor at the VA, and pick up his prescriptions at CVS. We buy the eggs, milk, and bread before the storm.

But we are the storm. We are the people who file their FAFSA for scholarship money, we are the people who will pay when Medicaid ends, we are the people who will lose their Social Security,.

We are the storm, off shore and distant, out of sight and out of mind. The rich ignore us; they live in a different America of accountants, household managers, and headmasters. We don’t matter.

Until we aren’t there anymore. Until we aren’t buying anymore. Until we aren’t listening to the lies. Then the clouds build, the wind shifts, and the stock market dives.

We are the people who boycotted our favorite store.

We are the People of Market Basket.