It is A Consummation Devoutly to be Wish’d: The Life of a Show….Checkout Girl
There was a time when going to the grocery store meant human interaction. Eye contact. The polite nod from the friendly cashier who wore a proper uniform with pride. The gentle choreography of placing items on the conveyor belt while the same said cashier asks if I have found everything okay, and perhaps I lied and said yes even though there was nary a twist tie to be found for the oranges.
Ah, those were simpler times. Softer times. Times when I did not have to scan, bag, weigh, and emotionally support my own produce.
Self check-out is a slow death for me, and sometimes, like Hamlet, standing there, I have wished for death because at least I would be out of my misery.
Now? Now I am apparently employed part-time by the grocery store.
Nothing humbles me quite like marching confidently into a supermarket, only to be herded toward the glowing corral of self-checkout kiosks. The overhead sign practically sparkles with forced enthusiasm– green lights for go and red for no go.
I approach the machine the way one approaches a wild animal. Calm. Measured. Whispering affirmations. “I am not your enemy. Alright big boy we can do this…”
The screen greets me with the warmth of a pathological liar. Welcome valued customer. Scan your loyalty card now.
No small talk. Not even a “How’s your day going eh you hoser?” Just straight to business. I swipe my first item across the scanner with the confidence of someone who has watched other people do this many times. Of course I don’t have my loyalty card out… give me a minute.
Beep. Oh, that beep. That tiny, judgmental chirp that says, “Fine. Acceptable.” It is the
only validation I will receive during this entire transaction.
Then comes produce. Of course it does. Because nothing exposes my inadequacy faster than trying to locate the numeric code for organic zucchini while a line forms behind you. Am I buying regular zucchini? Organic zucchini? Is this technically a squash? Why are there eight different varieties? I fumble through the on-screen menu like I’m trying to hack into a government database. I choose to search by name because looking through pictures seems just a little too elementary.
The machine waits. Patient. Silent. Smug. But oh I am not fast enough, because there it is– please scan your next item now.
Stand down I want to say….give me a minute to spell ZUCCHINI correctly…
I finally select something that feels zucchini-adjacent. Place it on the scale.
Unexpected item in the bagging area.
Excuse me? It’s a zucchini. We discussed this.
I remove it. I replace it. I lift it gently as though it requires emotional reassurance. Unexpected item in the bagging area.
Help is on the way. I don’t need help with the zucchini but my blood pressure now shoots to 408/ 867. So the help they are sending better have some blood pressure pills in their back pocket.
At this point, I’m whispering obscenities to the bot.
And then—like a retail superhero summoned by distress—an employee glides over holding a handheld device that looks far more competent than I feel. They tap three buttons. The machine instantly complies.
Please continue scanning. So it’s not that the zucchini was unexpected. It was unexpected from me.
There is something uniquely offensive about being corrected by a computer with a voice I could throat punch. If a human cashier notices you double-scanned an item, they gently fix it. The machine, however, announces your failure to the entire front end of the store.
Please remove the last item scanned. Loudly. Publicly. With the tone of a disappointed high school teacher.
And heaven forbid I try to bring my own reusable bags. Or pay with two different cards. Say, one for business and one for personal….. Nope, nada, not happening. Left handed? Give up now.
I place my carefully folded canvas bag in the bagging area.
Please remove item from bagging area.
It’s… a bag. That I plan to bag things in.
Help is on the way. Oh good. Let’s gather witnesses because somebody is gonna
get hurt…..
By the time the attendant returns, I’ve already mentally drafted my resignation letter from my unpaid position as Temporary Grocery Associate. I did not apply for this job. I did not interview for this job. Yet here I am, scanning barcodes with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb.
The irony, of course, is that self-checkout was designed for speed. Efficiency. Independence. And yet I have never felt more scrutinized in my life. There is a camera pointed directly at my face, and might I say, not in the least an attractive image, but sadly an accurate representation, broadcasting my diabolical expression onto the screen as if to say, “ War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.”
It’s hard not to feel like the machine suspects me. Every pause feels accusatory. Every mis-scan is a potential felony. The machine insists on right handed people.
I promise you, Grocery Overlords, if I were going to embark on a life of crime, it would not involve sneaking off with a chunk of brie cheese. Maybe some cheap red so I can drink and forget about this experience.
Then comes the payment process. The grand finale. Now I put my “valued shopper” card in… oh the irony….. One would expect ching a ling in discounts.
One would be wrong.
Follow the instructions on the pin pad.
I tap. Nothing.
Follow the instructions on the pin pad. I tap again.
Insert card now. Why give me the choice of tap if tappity tap tap is NOT going
to happen.
Please insert your card. I try.
Help is on the way. For what? Clearance from corporate?
I can’t even imagine using cash. I have watched the others….The machine inhales the twenty-dollar bill like it’s analyzing it for signs of counterfeiting before grudgingly accepting that yes, you are simply buying one bunch of parsley. Or it spits it out 27 times while you find just the perfect bill in said wallet.
Finally, mercifully, the final declaration- Thank you for shopping with us!
The transaction is complete. I have scanned. I have bagged. I have triumphed. I have used words in all sorts of combinations that are not fit to write about here.
And yet I walk away feeling like I just completed a group project where I did all the work and the robot got the credit.
Here’s the thing: I understand the appeal. Short lines. No small talk. Control over how your groceries are bagged. There is a certain satisfaction in hearing a rapid series of confident beeps, like you’ve mastered some domestic video game.
And yet—despite my sass, my sarcasm, my ongoing feud with the zucchini scale—
I know I’ll be back. I have no choice. Guests come to a B&B for not just the bed, but for the breakfast….
And next week like clock work, I will walk into that glowing corral. Tapping. Welcome valued customer.
Whispering, “Alright….Let’s try this
again,” putting my metaphorical cashier uniform on….
Because apparently I work here now.
And I’d like to think I deserve a raise.
Colleen McCullough is the owner of
The Virginia May Bed and Breakfast @ Eagle
Mountain Lake. You can follow the BnB on
Instagram and Facebook @thevirginiamay
TheVirginiaMay.com
817.739.3935
11671 Randle Ln.
Fort Worth, TX 76179
