I was working on my computer Sunday night when I noticed it was after 6 p.m. And I had a thought that was nearly unique in all of Western Pennsylvania: Oh, good, I can go to the supermarket now.

I was going to go earlier -- had the cloth bag in the car and the shopping list in my pocket -- but I looked at the clock and thought: This would be like trying to cross Times Square on New Year's Eve to buy a bottle of champagne.

My preferred Giant Eagle is always busy on weekends. And after searching in vain for milk once on the eve of a snowstorm (I was out of it, I swear), I have always tried to consider what cataclysmic event might affect my ability to successfully park within a day's walk and find an avocado or can of corn without being fatally elbowed or run down by a giant kiddie cart.

I was happy to go shopping during the Super Bowl, but I had no idea what I was getting into. I figured it would be like hitting the all-night supermarket at 3 in the morning -- not venturing into a post-apocalyptic ghost town.

There was no traffic on Route 19. There were no lines of cars making left turns waiting for green arrows; no processions traveling in slo-mo, fearing unseen cops. I made excellent time, braking only for tumbleweeds.

In a parking lot the size of New Jersey, there were no more than five cars. I thought for a minute the supermarket had run out of chicken wings, canned chili and toilet paper and closed its doors in despair. It was all I could do to resist the urge to park in a "New and Expectant Mothers" space.

(Who would object? On Sunday evening, I could have landed a helicopter gunship full of nude zombies in the fire lane without anyone noticing -- but even on an ordinary weekday, would someone demand proof of pregnancy? Is there a bump inspector, or is the state issuing a permit tag with a rounded stick-figure icon?)

The store was open, but absolutely deserted. The usually congested produce department was clear enough for roller derby. I wished I'd brought a bowling ball to International Foods.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

I had assumed I would enjoy this, but the desolation was spooky. Just one screaming kid, I thought. Just one cleanup in aisle 10, one manager with a call on line 2.

I scooped up everything on my shopping list in record time, trying to savor the experience the way I do when the trolley slides in just as I reach the platform or I shoot through one of the tunnels in the wee hours, thinking, "Treasure this moment."

But, after waiting alone at a register for a minute, I was relieved when a cashier arrived. Her name badge introduced her as Janet, and I desperately needed to talk to her to convince myself I was real and not losing my grip. Minutes before, I had caught myself berating a pineapple.

"Do you get overtime for working the holiday?" I asked.

"This isn't a holiday," she said.

Ha! This was so much bigger than a mere holiday. Even on Christmas Eve, there are men buying convenience store travel mugs. Even on New Year's Day, people venture forth for more Alka-Seltzer and gym memberships.

"Was it crazy earlier?" I persisted.

"No, it wasn't bad at all today," Janet said. "But YESTERDAY -- oh, my God. Worse than Christmas Eve. Worse."

This was confirmed by a young bagger, whose name was evidently Ward.

After visiting a friend with the only TV in captivity tuned to "House," I drove home through the crowds surging into the dark streets in their black jerseys, blowing horns and yelling with joy: "YEAH! YEAAHHH!"

Into the night, I could hear the whoops, the screams, the car horns, the fireworks, the sirens responding to the blaze of sacrificial couches. In the morning, I waded out to the car through a dusting of spent bottle rockets.

I usually like the quiet. I still don't care about football. But it's better than bowling for International Foods.

And I thought, "Treasure this moment."