You Have To Check This Out

It finally happened. I knew it was just a matter of time, and I’ve been dreading it. I was shopping at one of Trussville’s big box stores and, after I had gathered my purchases, I strolled over to the checkout area searching for a cashier.

There were none.

There was only a bank of self-checkout machines, accompanied by a couple of watchful employees. So, we’ve finally gotten there. The time when checkers have been all but eliminated and we have to check ourselves out. I try not to be one of those people that hates change. But I don’t think I’m going to handle this well.

For starters, can we not standardize these these things so they all handle the same stuff? One machine takes cash only. One takes credit cards only. One takes cash and credit cards. One only takes cards from Southern Baptists. Another is for Capricorns.

Then there’s the search for the bar code. I’m convinced the packagers are entertaining themselves by deliberately trying to make them as hard to find as possible. Kind of like playing a game of Where’s Waldo. After rotating my can of paint for ten minutes in a futile attempt to find the code, I am rescued by the employee monitor, who seems annoyed at my incompetence. She points out the tiny code, which is located on the bottom of the back label, partially obscured by a sticker telling me this product is helping to save the environment. I’m not certain, but I could swear I saw the employee roll her eyes at me as she walked away.

The robotic female voice in the machine tells me to remove my items from the platform and bag them, unsympathetic to the fact the bags are too small to hold anything larger than a cantaloupe. “Take your receipt” she says. Glad to. Where is it? I have this uncanny ability to choose the machine that has run out of paper.

All the while I feel the heavy gaze of the monitors, watching me intently, the way a mother watches her toddler after telling him to stay away from the wet paint on the kitchen doorway. I have this fear of accidentally forgetting to scan one of my items, and immediately being led out of the store in handcuffs. You’re not paranoid if they really are out to get you.

I blame Piggly Wiggly. Back in the early 1900’s, when grocery stores and supermarkets began to proliferate, the customers would give their shopping lists to the clerk, who would then gather your groceries, and bring them to you. But around 1916, the first Piggly Wiggly opened in Memphis, Tennessee, pioneering a radically new concept. They let the customers actually roam the aisles by themselves, gather their own items, and bring them to the checkout. It was the genesis of a nefarious plot to make the customers do more of the work, while the employees do less, making them more expendable. The experiment was so successful that in 1937 the company introduced the next step, the shopping cart. Now, not only did you have to pick out your own stuff, but you had to tote it to your car and load it.

As you can see, it was inevitable that, ultimately, the process would become complete when the customer would also have to check himself out. And here we are.

It’s not a total revolution just yet. Most stores still keep a checker or two available so that you have the option. Folks who choose to do self-checkout usually do so because they don’t want to stand in line. They feel they are saving time by doing it themselves. Want to know a secret? Studies have shown that most shoppers who have multiple items don’t get out of the store any faster using self-checkout than they do by waiting it out in the cashier line. It just seems faster because you are busy doing something.

I’m going to miss the cashiers once they’re gone for good. That friendly lady asking me if I’m having a good day, or how I like that new brand of toothpaste, or offering me a choice between paper and plastic. I’ll miss placing that wooden divider stick on the moving belt, protecting me from paying for the broccoli the lady behind me tried to sneak into my items. Little did she know I hate broccoli. It won’t be the same without arm wrestling my cart away from the aggressive bag boy, who insists on pushing it to the car, desperate to look busy so that he doesn’t get laid off.

Alas, no matter. The self-checkout is here to stay. I expect I’ll get used to it. Guess I’ll see you at the store. I’ll be the one down on my hands and knees trying to find the slot where the receipt comes out.