Self-Checkout Is a Job I Didn’t Apply For

Let me tell you about the day I became an unpaid employee of a grocery store.

I went in for three things. Milk, bread and a bag of those little chocolate donuts my doctor and my wife have both personally asked me to stop eating. Three items. In and out. A man on a mission.

There were nine checkout lanes. One was open. One. Staffed by a teenager who was moving at the speed of continental drift. And next to it, gleaming like the gates of hell, were twelve self-checkout machines.

The machine hates you personally

I scanned the milk. Beep. Fine. I set the milk down in the bagging area, as instructed. And the machine, in the calm, condescending voice of a robot who’s never paid a mortgage, said:

“Unexpected item in the bagging area.”

Unexpected? I’m the one who put it there! You watched me do it! You literally asked me to! What did you expect, a live goose?

The light of shame

Then the light came on. You know the light. The little red light on top of the pole that tells the entire store, “This man is a suspect.” Everybody turns. A lady with a cart full of cat food gives me a look like I’ve been caught shoplifting a car. I’m standing there with a gallon of milk like a criminal holding the evidence.

And then I wait. And wait. For the one employee responsible for twelve machines, who is currently helping a guy who’s trying to scan a watermelon like it’s a barcode on a postcard.

A list of things I’ve been accused of by a self-checkout machine

• Placing an item in the bagging area.
• Not placing an item in the bagging area.
• Removing an item from the bagging area. (I picked up my own keys.)
• Buying beer. (I’m a grown-ass man with a gray goatee. Card me. Please. It’d be the nicest thing that’s happened to me all week.)
• Breathing near the scale.
• Existing in a general sense.

The produce code situation

Then there’s produce. You can’t scan a banana. Bananas don’t have barcodes because bananas are anarchists. So you have to look it up. On a touch screen. Covered in the fingerprints of every person in the county. You type “B-A-N” and it offers you “bean sprouts,” “banana peppers,” and “bandages,” and suddenly you’re questioning whether you even know what a banana is anymore.

I once spent four minutes trying to find “onion” before I realized I was holding a potato. That’s on me. But the machine could’ve said something.

And then the coupon

Do you know what happens when you try to use a coupon at self-checkout? Neither do I, because I tried once in 2019 and I’m still in line.

The real problem

Here’s what really grinds my gears. They didn’t make it cheaper. Nothing got cheaper. They just moved the job from their side of the counter to mine. I’m scanning. I’m bagging. I’m troubleshooting. I’m doing loss prevention on myself. Where’s my name tag? Where’s my 15-minute break? Where’s my employee discount? I want a W-2, damn it.

The solution

From now on, I’m doing what my grandfather did. I’m going to the one lane with a real human being, no matter how long the line is. I’ll stand there. I’ll read the tabloids. I’ll make small talk. I’ll learn about the cashier’s dog. And when it’s my turn, I’ll say “paper, please,” and a person will put my three items in a bag, and I’ll walk out with my dignity intact.

Or I’ll go to the self-checkout, because I’m impatient and stupid, and the light will come on, and I’ll stand there holding milk like an idiot. Again. Every week. That’s the real tragedy. They know we’ll come back.

Shop the damn thing: Tees for professional complainers.

Sound off in the comments: What’s the dumbest thing a self-checkout machine has ever accused you of? Tell your story so others may heal.