The Self Check Blues
by Jan Hostyn
Bzzzt – please wait for assistance.” “Bzzzt – please put item in bagging area.” “Bzzzt – please try again.” Bzzzt, bzzzt, bzzzt and… enough already.
I simply want to buy my groceries, load all my carefully packed bags in the car and then cart them home. All without talking, smiling or making eye contact with another living soul. That can’t be too much to ask, can it? Evidently it can, even when you’re using the spiffy new self-checkout at your favourite (or your notso- favourite) grocery store.
I like using the self-checkout at the grocery store – or the thought of using it, anyway. I like not having someone scrutinize what I’m buying, I like not feeling obligated to make awkward small talk and I like scanning my apples (and pears and pomegranates and other such pernickety creatures) gently, so they don’t end up with inopportune bruises all over their delicate little bodies. And I quite like bagging my own stuff – the broccoli in the bag destined for the garage fridge, the mangoes in the bag bound for the big bowl on the dining room table. It makes the whole dreaded unpacking thing so much easier.
I know, it kind of sounds like I’m a bit of an anal control freak. I’m not, though. Not all the time, anyway. I just take my grocery shopping seriously. Especially the whole bagging and transporting and unpacking part of grocery shopping – the big not-so-fun chunk. I actually like the shopping piece of it, the seeing-what’s-newand- exciting bit and the pickingout bit. But when it comes time to go through the till and lug my bounty to the car, not to mention the whole putting away thing, well, that I’m not too fond of. And I’m not at all enamoured with finding a bruise or a dent or a crack in one of my new acquisitions – something that wasn’t there an hour before. Not at all.
And that whole till thing? Well, usually, I’d just rather not. I kind of have cashier-phobia. It’s not that I’m anti-social – not all the time, anyway. Sometimes idle chitchat puts a smile on my face and a spring in my step. But sometimes, just sometimes, debating the merits of a particular brand of toilet cleaner is just, well, work. Trifling natter aside, those groceries going down that spiffy little conveyer belt are my groceries: my blood oranges, my kumquats, my star fruit and my bags of quinoa. And every time my eggs are thumped, my apples are plopped or my tomatoes are tossed – all which I have just spent significant time picking out so that they show no signs of having been thumped, plopped or tossed – a little uncontrollable twitch starts taking over my face. And when that big heavy bag of potatoes is plunked mercilessly on top of my dainty container of blackberries? Guttural noises threaten to escape from my mouth.
Oh, and the questions. Questions like “What does one do with quinoa?” or “Are you sure you want to buy those star fruit? They seem awfully expensive.” Sometimes – okay, quite often – my mood and questions simply don’t mesh. These are my groceries, people, mine, and I can darn well buy whatever I please. No questions or comments required, thank you very much.
So yeah, I sound like a bit of a tyrant. But I’m not – not usually, anyway. And I’m usually quite pleasant. But it can be work.
So, yay for self-check, that lovely little innovation that’s operated by me – just me. Except when I need help. Then it’s not operated by just me. And I seem to need help a lot. Like when I scan something wrong, or when the code is nowhere to be found on the product or in the machine, or when I don’t bag something fast enough, or when I take a bag off that little scale too fast, or when I want to use a coupon, or when I spend too much money or when the whole selfcheck system is simply having a particularly finicky day. And each store has its own little quirks, so when you think you’ve got the system mastered, think again.
But if it gets me out of that humongous store with all my groceries intact, it’s worth it. Excuse me as I breeze past all you die-hard, cashier-worshipping, change-abhorring shoppers who are waiting not-so-patiently in one of those excruciatingly long line-ups just to make idle chitchat with a complete and utter stranger – and then having them bump and thump your valuables. I’m off to that sterile solitary oasis known as self-check because I like being in control. And I’ll relish that control fiercely – until the “bzzzt-ing” and “please-ing” starts, that is.
Edmonton writer Jan Hostyn prefers to bag her own groceries, thank you very much.