I miss twenty four hour grocery stores. I miss anything that’s open after nine o’clock, really; the notable exception being my place of employment. I think my job aggravates the pain of no late-night retailing in suburban New Jersey – the fact that when I get off at 1:30am there is NOTHING open anywhere for work-to-home decompression, and even when I get off “early” around 10, or take a dinner break around the same time, it’s a challenge to find something besides Taco Bell and a gas station that’s open.

But what I really miss are the grocery stores. There’s something maddeningly constrictive about realizing you’re out of salsa or shampoo or permanent markers at midnight and realizing that you’ll have to wait ’til morning to replenish. None of these begin to approach something that possesses any real impact on your life, but the principle – that people who aren’t in bed by ten and up by eight can fuck off – bothers me fundamentally. Ever since my parents decided it wasn’t worth the hassle to enforce bedtimes, there was the possibility of shopping at all hours laid out before me. As soon as I could drive, I began exulting in the glories of Hyper-Mart (soon debased and renamed as a “Wal-Mart Supercenter) and the possibilities that it held. Everything you needed – and many things you did not – accessible twenty four hours a day! There wasn’t much else to do in Topeka, so walking through the aisles, every aisle of Hypermart turned into a late night destination.

When I was in Lawrence, Dillons Grocery Stores were our new Mecca. There was one right down the hill from Stephenson, which in turns was called Dirt Dillons, Ghetto D, and illons, after the unlit D featured in its sign for the better part of a year. You could walk if you liked, but more often it was a carpool of procrastinators, stocking up on canned soup, own-brand soda and sour mix at three in the morning. Its lack of the finer things was part of its charm. Sure, you had a smaller selection and the deli looked unsafe. Maybe they still offered dusty Sega Genesis games in the rental section. But it was our Dillons, as the ad campaign went. So it was a major blow when we came back from break one semester to discover that their hours had shifted from 24-7 to closing at midnight. There was another Dillons, a nicer one, about five minutes away, but it just wasn’t the same. I’d worry that we were basically slumming at Dirt Dillons, but then I remember the squalor that was Stephenson Hall. It was more likely that we just felt ill at ease in the well-lit and lavishly appointed Posh Dillons.

Eventually, Posh Dillons (or pseudo-Posh Dillons, as the one across town outstripped its selection and decor and stole its name) became our Dillons. When I lived on Alabama Street we visited often enough during the overnight shift that we became familiar with the graveyard shift crew; Barb, who smiled a nice old lady smile but who I suspect secretly hated our loud and vulgar youth. The younger guy whose name I can’t remember, but who spoke with a voice both froggy and mildly retarded. And the older guy, who always looked as if he was five minutes away from snapping and pulling out a knife, but still took time to hit on Jessica. If you were feeling extravagant we could drive all the way over to the new Hy-Vee and chat with Kevin, who attended our high school. And half of the people who worked at the local convenience stores were either students on in local bands, so we knew them too. It was a familiar web.

You sacrifice small things when you shop at 3am. The deli and the Chinese kitchen were never open, sometimes produce was missing. You would have to dodge the Mexicans cleaning the floors and giant pallets of canned goods in the middle of the aisles. But you never had to wait in line, you could practice Big Boots to the top shelf of paper towels all you liked, and you rarely ran into people you didn’t want to see. Plus it was convenient for when you drunkenly decide that it is time to make tacos. It was a perfect symbiosis between consumer and commerce.

I was not looking for such lofty Platonic ideals tonight. I simply wanted some salsa, some pretzels, some garlic salt and if possible, a pocket-sized daily planner/calendar. I had to venture over to… I think it was a Super A&P. I honestly don’t know. I just remembered seeing a sign that says OPEN 24 HOURS when driving through Boonton, so I figured I’d give it a shot. The entire produce section smelled STRONGLY of artificial cinnamon, like they had covered the underside of all of the shelving with that new Emeril toothpaste. What’s odd is that I want to try this cinnamon toothpaste. I even thought of this toothpaste on the drive home, but despite the smell – which also hung over the cash registers – it never registered with me to pick the item up. I found all the items I wanted, save for the calendar. There was even a particularly chatty overnight stock person who yelled down the aisle, helpfully pointing out that my “best value” were the Doritos, even though I was shopping the pretzel section. It’s the thought that counts, after all.

The trip took a nosedive when I realized that there was no dedicated clerk. There was a lady out stocking the shelves, and when I came up to the front, she had to stop stocking the shelves and ring me up. This drained all possible pleasure the transaction could hold. Rationally, I know that ringing someone up is not fun. I’ve done it thousands and thousands of times at my own jobs, and unless the customer is particularly attractive or is chatty and buying something of mutual interest, it is at best a neutral experience. But when you are a dedicated cashier, at least it can be seen as a reprieve, something to occupy the time. I am a cordial and compliant customer, and when we would shop at Dillons late at night I felt that we served as a not unpleasant distraction for Barb and company, who otherwise would just stand behind the counter, listening to Magic 108 and shuffling the cartons of cigarettes. But this woman (she was not wearing a name tag) was being interupted by my transaction. My purchase is making her appointed stocking task take longer than it otherwise would. I was an interloper. What made it worse was when she asked for my “savings club” card, and I pulled out EIGHT cards from other grocers, including my precious Dillions Plus Card. But no A&P card. That was terrible.

I also cannot find anywhere in New Jersey that makes Chicken Fried Rice in precisely the bastardized cartoonish way that Dillons does. I am probably going to make my own soon. I have been saying this for months now. But between the longing for Dillons and the strange experience of finding a purportedly “KC Barbecue” place in Montclair, my resolve is doubled.