As I walked into the small suburban enclave of Edgemere, one of the last white, working class refuges in Harm County U.S.A., I took notice of the business hours and discovered that businesses on Saturday were closing as early as 3:00 p.m., that most were not open on Sunday, and even at the grocery store, when I headed out with Megan to pick something up for a late dinner, that 7:00 p.m. seemed like a witching hour, even with two hours left of daylight.

At the neighborhood bar, where was a cute barmaid—not slutty at all—who had escaped from Baltimore City, a retired man, two middle aged men, one young man and his young woman, and this guy. This being my second trip into the bar, I was asked if I moved in nearby—something you never get in the non-community that is the city or the suburb proper, as you are studiously ignored. The men discussed the upcoming Mayweather McGregor fight. The barmaid asked for news of the City, listened and cringed.

Men shot pool and watched college baseball on the big screen, while Country music and southern fried rock played over the digital radio.

As I read ancient history and drank modern beer in a state of refuge from the postmodern world, I recalled my time in retail food in city supermarkets, that expanding hours deeper into the night on behalf of retailers seeking more shekels always seemed to precede terminal urban blight by a few years. Once, when tasked with the decision of hours expansion as a general manager, I spoke to my Uncle Fred about it and he said, “Nothing good happens after ten at night. Why invite that through your door? Family is the bases for your business and night life is the opposite of that. The only time you should open overnight is the night before a holiday, which will enable people to shop before the family hours and spend time where it belongs. Other than that, my pop’s generation knew best.”

I recalled this again, the night before last, as I worked in a suburban supermarket which is open 24-hours, with the lesser people of the area shopping with infants and toddlers, and even school-age children during the school week, in the middle of the night, when even bars are closing, and concluding, “We appear to be a just few years from terminal blight.”