Time & Tide by Frank Conroy Read Free Book Online Page B

something about it. It was true then, and it is true now, that almost everything is marked up in Nantucket. Gasoline, for instance, is quite a lot higher than on the Cape. There is more competition now— more markets (lots of boutique markets, specialty meat markets, a couple of farmer’s markets, one of them huge), but prices are still high—no longer due to what you might call captive customers (not so long ago there was only that one place to get the Sunday
New York Times,
The Hub, smack in the middle of downtown at the corner of Main and Federal), but because of the generally “up” market of people who don’t have to worry what a quart of milk might cost. Of course, it is a seasonal economy, and retailers have to survive in February as well as August.
    The general priciness perhaps reaches its extremes at the ’Sconset Market, the only grocery store in the village at the eastern end of the island, where the prices of ordinary items like a bag of Oreos or a box of cereal are so astronomical it takes one’s breath away. (They do bake some very fine baguettes, in their defense.) But no one does major shopping there. For that one goes to the supermarket—either the rather modestly sized Grand Union built as part of the downtown wharf development project, or most important the huge Stop and Shop at the edge of town. It was once a Finast, and before that something else, but it has always been the dominant market, and increasingly so as the island has grown to the point where there are more people living out of town (in season, at least) than in town. The Stop and Shop is it, and they must be commended for an honest effort to keep their prices reasonable, not too much more than in their stores on the mainland.
    My ex-wife, who lives out west, was struck by the change in atmosphere at the market when she visited the island a couple of summers ago. She remembered a kind of community spirit—high school kids or working college kids at the checkouts, people chatting with friends in the aisles, a certain social cohesiveness—that wasn’t there anymore. From the insanely crowded parking lot, with everyone honking horns, jostling for spaces, bumping bumpers, to the jam-packed aisles of people racing inside, eager to get back to the beach or the barbecue, it has a frantic, almost desperate feel in the high season. One rarely recognizes anyone now— to come upon a friend or acquaintance at the deli section is rare indeed, and invariably creates a certain nostalgia for the old days. The checkout staff, the baggers, and the like are mostly Jamaicans now, speaking a bewildering patois, unconnected, like migrant workers (which they are), from the culture around them. It is a pressured atmosphere, and not comfortable or enjoyable. It’s a pain in the ass, in fact, for a lot of us.
    Four or five years ago my wife was witness to a scene in the supermarket that may be emblematic of the transformation of Nantucket from a small town into something else altogether. A prominent family on the island whom I will call the Smiths—summer people for generations—were involved in various local businesses at a high level. Bob Smith is a big, handsome guy with a thousand-watt smile, a lot of charm, and a lot of smarts. His image on the island was carefully cultivated—an honest, thoughtful, family man with good values and a heightened sense of community. And all of this was, and no doubt still is, true. Which makes what my wife saw all the more astonishing.
    The Stop and Shop, on a Friday afternoon, was jam-packed with shoppers stocking up for the weekend, anticipating guests, jostling up and down the aisles in a mild frenzy. My wife was waiting in line at one of the checkout lanes. She sees Bob moving forward with a cart filled to the brim, top to bottom, and inserting himself into the express lane. The girl at the cash register protests. “This is twelve items only,” she says.