Self Checkout Hell.

March 23, 2024

Another in a series of observations of life as I know it.

The Self-Checkout Line, the place where customers of an establishment become unpaid employees of the establishment.

-Richard Turner

Our grocery store now has self-checkout, for your convenience. It's like getting punched in the throat, for your comfort.

-Dana Gould

~~~~~

I like to think of myself as a modern, forward-thinking, au courant woman. One fervently embracing new technology, gadgets and gizmos. Apps on my phone offer convenience and short cuts—most of the time. The exception being the new invoice app just generated by my family physician. I cannot pay bills on it, which I think is its point. But, for the most part, I like to experiment with newer trends. It’s a good way to build connections with my younger counterparts. For instance, when having issues with a privacy safeguard on my iphone, my 30 year old nephew offered his help, with the assurance that “we’re millennials, we grew up with this stuff”. Okay fine. However, I came of age with cars with tail fins but that doesn’t imply I understand how to fix them. I think he was referring to a certain ingrained level of comfort using the fine print of apps. Or not. I may have missed his point. Whatever.

But, I categorically refuse to participate with one particular “cost saving” piece of lunatic technology—the dreaded self-checkout counter at the grocery store or pharmacy. These totems are the antithesis of convenience. First, one must place your reusable cloth bags just so on the flat surface provided. Then you select the number of reusable bags in your possession on the screen. At that juncture, you may (or may not) be invited to begin scanning the barcodes on your groceries. This is a wing and a prayer proposition dependent on the readability of the aforementioned barcode. If it’s wrinkled, damp or illegible, you are pretty much out of luck. The scanner develops a manic tic which triggers the nuclear option known as the HELP function. Everything is halted, a light goes on over the register which flashes with some urgency. Repairs to the hiccup in the system must be surveyed by a human. Of course. She will come to your aid, friendly enough the first time, waving her key card over the screen like a latter day magic wand. Failing that, she will attempt to read the bar code. Ultimately she will enter the number above the code manually. Mission accomplished. On average, I require a minimum of three such visitations from the human intercessor. Each time, she and I both register an increased heart rate. Nothing as critical as the impending heart attacks waiting in line behind me. Finally, all items are bagged, except large packages of toilet paper and detergent. The self checkout machine does not approve of my effort to scan the price and immediately place the large package in my cart. Why? Because it never nestled down with the bagged items. This is not allowed in personless check out. So I heft my 20 roll behemoth of toilet tissue back onto the bagging area. Where I am required to stuff it in a bag. Seriously? I am beginning to laugh in an unattractive fashion. Bordering on hysteria. The help button is activated. Again. The human cashier hoists the TP into my metal cart, whilst slamming an override button on the keypad. She looks at me as if to demand a duel at sunrise in the parking lot. Yet I stand firm. Swipe my credit card and hold my breath. Please let it go through. 

Stores supposedly are using self checkout counters as a speedy way to “pay and go”. Quick like the proverbial bunny. A cost saving measure? I think not. For each self checkout counter, a human counterpart exists to undo the damage du jour. Lines lengthen. Managers are called to defray the tension. Many storm out, leaving carts full and unattended. A clerk is dispatched to unpack the shopper’s misery. Sweet Jesus make it stop!

I have learned to wait in the queue for registers operated by real people. Ones who usually inquire if you have found what you came for. Maybe we exchange a word or two about the weather. They bag my groceries politely and pack my rolling cart. If I have blueberries, they thoughtfully wrap a rubber band around the box to prevent spillage. Or point out that my box of Cheerios has a hole in it. Would I like another to replace it? At the denouement of this brief passion play, I usually get a kind “thank you”, which I gratefully return. 

We have not arrived at an advanced Jetson’s age of automation. Not yet. Humans, even with their myriad faults and foibles, still are a requisite part of daily interactions. Consequently,  I am headed to register 6 where Norma reigns supreme. For now.