Inconnu

Newtonville, my new 'hood, is similar to my former stomping grounds in a number of ways. They both have a commuter rail station, a UPS Store, a cluster of bakery cafes and a bunch of banks, all within close range of my apartment. They also have a Shaw's Supermarket in common.

But the Newtonville Shaw's, a hulking windowless block of concrete, has always made me anxious because it perches over the Massachusetts Turnpike. If it didn't have a brightly lit orange sign affixed to its side, one could understandably believe it to be a detention center for suspected terrorists. Driving underneath it all these years, I hold my breath and say a quick prayer in the hopes that it won't collapse in the split second that I pass below it.

So far, so good.

But now, if I want to walk just a few blocks to a supermarket, Shaw's is it. I will either have to get over my fear that it might plunge to the turnpike while I am in it, splattering me and its entire juice section onto the pavement, or go to another place (not such a bad idea, since Trader Joe's and Whole Foods are also nearby).

I bravely entered Shaw's the other day, in search of the most basics of basics: toilet paper, laundry detergent and seltzer. Wandering through the aisles, which were differently configured from the Porter Square supermarket, I managed to pick up a few more things. When my carriage appeared to contain about as much as I could reasonably carry back to my place, I went to the checkout counter. The clerk tallied my purchases and I asked for paper bags with handles. This was all quite unremarkable, but quickly I began to feel like an inconnu, a real outsider.

Before I knew what was happening, the bagger had removed my shopping cart, placed half my purchases in a plastic bin and put the bin on a conveyor belt.

"Um, where did my groceries go?" I asked.

At this point he was bagging the rest.

"Can't I just take these with me?" I demanded, pointing to the bags that were still within reach. "I walked here."

But the bagger was on auto pilot and put them in a bin, handing me two numbers that corresponded to the containers.

"Where do I pick these up?" I sighed.

"Go downstairs, to the left and under the building," the clerk said.

Numbers in hand, I scampered after my groceries, entering a tunnel where SUV after SUV lined up to be loaded with goodies by the Shaw's employees. The customers didn't even have to leave their vehicles. My bins trundled toward me, the lone pedestrian shopper, and I scooped up the bags, retreating as quickly as I could from the dark and exhaust filled underbelly of Shaw's.

I am curious about the reaction I'll get when I go next time and ask them to load my groceries into a backpack.