by Emily Pritchard Cary
GRAND OPENING by Emily Pritchard Cary One of the grandest of the Grand Openings was abruptly halted on Friday, April 11, 1975, at approximately 4:30 P.M., when an uncooperative component in a freshly installed Bunker Ramo Electronic Store information System ceased operation. The resulting pandemonium cast Mike Madonna, manager of the spanking new Shop-Rite Super Market in Springfield, New jersey, into an unenvied starring role heretofore played only in recurring nightmares. This nightmare, peculiar to supermarket managers, is heralded by a vision of the store crammed with customers, their shopping carts filled to overflowing in anticipation of the upcoming weekend. The clerks at the check-out counters are handling the throngs with customary efficiency. Suddenly, an inexplicable malfunction in the computer-based registers halts all operations. Within minutes, chaos prevails. Irate shoppers, each intent on immediate attention, become restless, then belligerent, ultimately storming the aisles. The nightmare soars to a climax so hideous that the store manager wakens-screaming-in cold terror, fancying himself merely inches from the wrath of a lynch mob. What happened when that nightmare slipped across the gossamer barrier which transformed it into reality? Let me begin where I began, armed with an empty cart, a wallet wadded with crisp bills, a lucrative assortment of clipped coupons redeemable only during the Grand Opening Weekend, and a heart happy in the knowledge that both employees and mechanical complexities therein would mold my turn around the store into a memorable event. "It's bad enough being trapped in a Grand Opening mob, but it's an absolute crime to be kept prisoner by a broken-down machine." It was! Police officers were on hand to direct cars feeding from the highway into the parking lot which already was jampacked. Inside, a bevy of official caps bobbed among the milling bodies, helping to steer foot and cart traffic through the aisles. I decided to work systematically, beginning my forage on the far side in fresh produce. Despite the crowds and the difficulty in propelling my shopping cart with any semblance of speed, I did not feel inhibited. Clerks in the delicatessen, seafood, and fresh meats departments hustled through their chores, servicing each customer with dispatch. When one customer preceding me down the aisle was momentarily stymied by a blockade of carts ahead, she mused, "The crush is dreadful today, but it shouldn't be so bad in a few weeks when things settle down." Her companion observed the energy of the check-out clerks responding to the rush of business. "Don't worry," she consoled. "Once we reach the counter, they'll whisk us right through!" Admittedly, the entire process absorbed double the usual time, but much of the delay could be attributed to unfamiliarity with the shelf arrangements, the small children underfoot who were actively in pursuit of balloon-distributing clowns, and the gaggle of company representatives proferring product samples at several key intersections. I rounded the final aisle wealthier by a number of freebees, secure in the knowledge that the endeavor had been rewarding. A cursory glance at the ten check-out counters revealed some delay. I would have to wait my turn behind at least six other shoppers with carts piled high. I opted, therefore, for the nearest slot. As I edged my groaning cart into place, the woman ahead spun around and glared, fury peppering her countenance. What had I done wrong? Studying customers in other lines, I realized that all wore venomous expressions. No longer were the clerks at the check-out stations herding the orders along with the alacrity and spirit exhibited earlier. Instead, all ten of them-together with their accompanying baggers-stood doggedly still, arms folded. A pervading silence further verified that something was amiss. Whispers trickled back from the front of the store. As they spread to a steady murmur, I detected a lethal word flitting from one counter to another: "Strike!" The word bounced back and forth several times, swelling to a roar like a cyclone building momentum, An elderly woman nudged me, ominously, "They've gone on strike!" I did not know if she spoke the truth, but the mass inactivity up ahead deemed it a likely possibility. A man behind me overheard her. "Good God!" he shouted. "Let's get out of here. There's liable to be violence." So saying, he grabbed his wife by the elbow and steered her to the door. "But ... but . . . what about our groceries?" she protested. "Our cart is full." "Forget it," he growled. "There'll be plenty of trouble here in a little while. We don't want to get involved." Once outside, he confronted potential customers, alerting them to the situation. The recipients of his bad tidings froze in their tracks, stared-disbelieving-through the huge plate glass windows at the motionless mob, then wheeled about and returned to their cars. [image]
