Analysis of a Place

The Quality of the Quality Mart

You have to be blind, drunk, or incredibly preoccupied to pass the West Market Street Shell Station and not take notice. Its neon lights glare triumphantly in brighter, more lurid colors than those of its neighbors. The stripes around the building, like the racing stripes on a sports car, glow gold and red, encouraging our traffic-light-conditioned minds to have us slow down and stop in. If West Market Street is a carnival of fast foods and quick stops, the Shell station is the double ferris wheel. It epitomizes our society's obsession with instant gratification, quick fixes and flashy images.

The marketing and image of this store are brilliant, timely, and meticulously executed. The basic concept is not new; we are used to the fact that a gas station is rarely just a gas station anymore. These establishments have often become disco junk-food parlors like this one. But this Shell station has tailored its image a step further. Unlike the average Hop-In or Wilco, where that feeling of tooth decay, indigestion, and impending cancer is unavoidable, here it is well disguised. The Shell station aims to fill a niche just up-market of 7-11, catering to the crowd of hip yuppies on the go.

This image is broadcasted onto Market Street subtly, yet with force. First off, it is officially called the Quality Mart, reminding us of quality time with Mom, persons of quality, and every manner of USDA choice ground wholesomeness. Even more compelling than the official name, which is tucked off to the side, is the large caption YOGURT BAR, located centrally over the glass-walled foyer; the caption employs the popular myth of yogurt (that eating decadent desserts can somehow make you thin and healthy) and further appeals to our attraction to the sexy atmosphere of "bars." Customers who fancy themselves a step up from the basic Stop 'n` Shop crowd are beguiled by the other words humming colorfully forth from the darkness. Reading from the left is the neon design of a hot dog bearing its name, another rather phallic design which could be a banana split, and then my favorites: YOGURT BAR, DELICATESSEN, PASTRIES, COFFEE. Whatever happened to BEER, GAS AND CIGARETTES? They are still there and probably the major sellers, but they aren't as marketable.

Two signs of the times are flashy advertising and carefully orchestrated images. These are exemplified inside as well as out. Neat rows of shelves are stocked with goods sporting brilliant hues, each product with its own ad campaign, logo and trade mark. This kind of emphasis on image marketability and consumer opinion has bled over into politics, controlling the campaigns of candidates for offices of all ranks, even parties. Marketers spend millions on image consultants and advertising agents, until the real person or product behind the wrapper is a minute and incidental part of the deal.

Once inside this world of beguilement and deception you will feel your every sense bombarded: your eyes will be dazzled by a cornucopia of attractive packages; your nose will be filled with the characteristic smell of hot dogs, slowly rotating and glistening as synthesized dance music besieges your ears; your taste buds will remind you that their appeasement is only a cash transaction away. You can even finger the M&M's as you pile them on your yogurt. It is a world of overstimulation, glitz and gluttony. But this gaudiness is far from unprecedented. From Louis XIV and his Versailles, to the Rococo art of the 18th century to Las Vegas, human beings are suckers for embellishment.

Sensory bombardment at the Quality Mart is a clear symptom of our overindulgence. We have become desensitized so that plain bread has no taste, a plain store front would never attract our attention, silence is painfully boring.

Examination of the identity of the colored packages reveals a tremendous variety of goods: Pop Tarts, denture cleaner, cat food, bubble gum, laxative gum, thumb tacks, sexy magazines, yogurt, wire wheel cleaner and Beenie Weenies. Everything is processed, pre-cooked, packaged, and ready to go. Nothing available is a raw material, or anywhere near the bottom of the food pyramid. The mystical bond between a man and the oats that he sows is long lost. The goods we get there are far from their origin; they are prepared in factories and shipped in by distributors. The gas wells up from a mysterious source in the ground to feed our cars, just as the shelves are always mysteriously stocked with colorful answers to feed our every need, all hours. The first priority is convenience.

They even have convenient remedies for the late-night identity crisis. You can nip in and get yourself some cheap sunglasses, a satin rose and some earrings for your girlfriend, and some Faberge Brut 33. If what you need is to fit in with the guys, you can get a hat with some manufactured humor scrawled across the front, and you can be a hit without opening your mouth. If the crowd is full of beer drinkers, you can get one that says, "BEER INSPECTOR; ready for my next CASE," of if the crowd is full of asinine pigs you can pick the one that says, "At last I found the perfect girl. I couldn't ask for more; she's deaf, dumb, over-sexed and owns a liquor store."

We stride in, expecting everything to be ready for us, clean, neat, and safe. We do not have to consider the damage our gluttony is doing to our world. We are insulated from the fact that Shell is a primary investor in South Africa, as we are insulated from the fact that the ozone layer is damaged by the production of cellophane and styrofoam and by the exhaust spewed out by our car engines. There are immediate repercussions of this way of living, and the remedies are all here. Forget the respect the Indian had for the fruit of the land; we see these foods as a tempting enemy, and the full armament against their ill effects is only a shelf away, including a full array of antacids, laxatives and sleeping pills. But there's no time for rethinking our way of life. The big consequences mount up out back behind the brightly colored facade of the Quality Mart.

This is the same mentality that plagues our world politics: don't get involved in change, maintain the status quo, but fork money over for cosmetic quick fixes. Scarf down the barbecue pork rinds, Twinkies and Jolt cola, and then pop a few Rolaids when your stomach starts burning. Spend the majority of the country's budget on nuclear defense then patch things up with Star Wars rather than going after the problem, and working towards disarmament. Pour money into mismanaged band-aid efforts to save the starving children. Stock the shelves with disposable containers and forget about recycling, while landfills overflow and the orphaned trash barge sails the seas.

Meanwhile, on this delicate balance of indulgence and remedy sits the new-fangled Shell Quality Mart. I frequent this Shell station, passing a less interesting Wilco and several Circle K's on the route. It is a jolt for all of my senses and its carnival atmosphere reminds me of my childhood love for the fair. But there was always something bitingly tragic about the fair and its illusion: a haunting look in the eyes of the ride attendant, glazed with drugs and exhaustion. There is a nagging sense of dark reality behind the bright lights. When our pockets are empty, and we get off the ferris wheel, feeling cloyed and dizzy, maybe we can see more clearly after all. The Shell Quality Mart gave us what we asked for, and now we need to ask for something else.

--Susanna Paisley

Next Page