Nobody would ever take a reusable Acme bag into Wegmans. No one would want to represent Acme, the lowest rung chain of grocery-store chains, its utilitarian store with one 12’ x 12’ refrigerator case of prepared foods and its awful, awful Kelly green bag. Acme is the store you run into for trash bags, furtively, hoping no one will see you, never mind that if someone you know sees you that means he or she is also at Acme — it’s still a humiliation. If you do bump into someone that’s what you say: “I just ran in here for trash bags.” And you prove this point by holding up the box of trash bags, show the other hand empty, so glad now that you did not take a cart when you parked and thought about how you do need a case of water and are probably low on cat food. But you did not take one of their forest green carts with real estate advertisements affixed to the end; you did not.
And so the person you’ve bumped into holds up the rearview mirror glue that he has purchased, thereby still beating you in cool, because after all, he probably doesn’t even produce garbage, and you need a box of 36 ForceFlex.
At Wegmans, the bags are black, with an iconic sketch of a wine bottle and wine glass (even though they can only sell wine in Virginia, where they have only a few stores, and in a handful of Maryland locations). The carts at Wegmans are black, a shiny black, I might even say a patent leather black, and there are no real estate agent ads on them, but there is a fresh flower holder, because, after all, who doesn’t buy fresh flowers on an average trip to the grocery store.
About 30 of Acme’s 12 x 12 refrigerator case of prepared food could fit in the more than one aisle that Wegmans has dedicated to prepared foods. In fact, my local Acme’s prepared food station could fit in the same space as Wegmans’ Olive Bar, where, every time I see the crowd around it, I think, “Recession? What recession?”
Something happens at Wegmans, and I don’t know enough about marketing to know if it’s the colors, the lighting, or what, but affordability starts to change for me. At Acme, I would laugh at the ridiculousness of their asking $8.99 a pound for eggplant rolatini in their deli case. At Wegmans, when I see the row after row of beautifully displayed chicken breasts in literally more than a dozen sauces, $12.99 a pound starts to make sense, and I have to force myself to remember that I still would have to cook it, that this comes with no sides or salad, that someone will have to do the dishes, and that I could go out to dinner for $5 more.
But sometimes that logic doesn’t win, and I bump into someone I know and in my shiny black cart there is a $2.50 stick of Wegmans’ Irish butter with chive and garlic, because I had a sample of the clams they made with this butter, and even though I’ve never made clams at home, right now, I feel like I just might. In my cart there is also something wrapped in white butcher paper, something delicious, something prepared so that all I have to do is cook it (and make side dishes and salad and clean up afterward). I say hello to the person I know, parking my cart a bit to the side so that we can chat a minute, instead of ducking and running as I do at Acme. As I sniff at the fresh-cut flowers in my fresh-cut-flower holder I ask my acquaintance how he is doing. I even ask him how his children are doing, because I am relaxed and happy here at Wegmans, my black bags neatly folded and awaiting their purchases, and we have bumped into each other in the tea section of the store, which is relaxing even if you’re not drinking it, and those clams were lovely (the last sample I was given at Acme was a chunk of cereal bar).
The Acme is so…raw. So obvious in its fulfillment of a bodily function. Think Mickey Rourke’s deli scene in The Wrestler. I kid you not: That scene was shot in a New Jersey Acme and the other folks you see are not extras. Even those who actually order from Mickey, they are Acme customers. Or do you know John Updike’s much anthologized short story “A&P”? I believe that the A&Ps all became Acmes, and that Sammy and Lengel and Stoksie are still working there, and I know for sure the floor is still “checkerboard green-and-cream tile."
Acme’s displays are the cardboard boxes the items came in, stacked and ripped open and in the middle of the aisle you are trying to navigate (in order to get out fast). Wegmans’ displays are grand pyramids on the end caps; their tall cylinders of candy makes folks of all ages gasp. If you buy Acme’s store-brand products, you probably remove the labels before you throw the cans or jars in the recycling bin. But Wegmans’ diet peach soda and Wegmans’ Food You Feel Good About Yogurt Dressing, in Greek Feta, are both delicious and in a bottle so pretty you’d bring them as hostess gifts.
Both Acme’s and Wegmans’ bags are machine-washable, and both are made from a water-repellent, nonwoven polypropylene blend and fold up for easy storage. Both cost 99 cents. Both make you look like a good citizen, even as you continue to gather plastic bags almost everywhere else you go. But, the bags — always the bags, isn’t it — have so much more to say.
Kathleen Volk Miller is co-editor of the Painted Bride Quarterly. She has published fiction, personal essays, and articles in numerous publications, including Red Booth Review and the Philadelphia Inquirer.
Homepage photograph by katherine of chicago via Flickr (Creative Commons); article photograph by luluinnyc | Amy Dreher via Flickr (Creative Commons); “Menu” photograph from Image Source/Getty Images; "Plate" photograph from FoodCollection/Getty Images.
