I have beef. Not with an ex. Not with the weirdo at Fedex who screams “AWESOME SAUCE!” every time I drop off a package. Not even with the landlord I once took to small claims court.
My beef is with the self-checkout machine.
That bitch makes me want to fight.
I stroll up with my items. A Poppi, Sensodyne enamel protecting toothpaste, and a bag of emergency spicy peanuts. Sometimes a girl just needs hot nuts.
I’m not trying to commit robbery. I’m not to go to prison over a pack of peanuts. I have a low resolution face. I would not look good in a mugshot. I am simply trying to leave CVS with my head held high and a receipt so long it could qualify as a scarf.
And yet, the second I mosey up to the machine, something shifts. It’s eyeing me.
“Oh it’s her,” it says, in whatever language machines use to talk shit.
The screen flashes. The camera turns on. My tired face appears in the corner looking like I was just caught stealing Sudafed in a gas station. I refuse to accept that this is how I look in real life. I’m not saying I’m Helen of Troy, but I was runner up in Miss Teen NJ once. The woman on the screen is a woman being interviewed for Dateline.
I do not need to see myself buying peanuts and toothpaste at 8:47 p.m. under CVS lighting. Nobody needs that angle. Not me. Not God. Not the loss prevention department. Why does the self-checkout camera always make you look like you were arrested at a Dave & Buster’s?
Fine. Whatever. I begin my scanning.
“Scan item.” I scan the item.
“Place item in bagging area.” I place the item in the bagging area.
“Unexpected item in bagging area.”
What do you mean unexpected? You told me to put it there, you asshole. I scanned it, the machine beeped at me like we had an understanding, and now suddenly it’s acting like the peanuts broke in through a side door.
This is a trap.
And now here I am arguing with a screen while looking like a fugitive, which is a terrible place to find yourself emotionally. If I’m going to be arguing with a screen I would prefer to do it looking chic.
Obviously there are people behind me the moment this happens. The self-checkout area could be completely empty when you walk up, but the minute a rogue machine decides you’ve committed a crime with a prebiotic beverage, a line appears out of nowhere like your drunk ex at 1 a.m.
“Please wait for assistance,” the register chirps.
I look around. Assistance from whom, exactly? One employee is across the aisle unlocking deodorant for a guy who looks like he's going to eat it. The other cashier is helping someone return a charred phone charger. And nobody is coming to help me with this register, which has apparently decided to stop working.
The only thing more annoying is having to pee with a romper. And why am I doing free labor for this giant corporation? Meanwhile they saved money on labor, Katie is out of a job, and the prices are the same.
Finally the damn employee comes over, waves the badge, presses three buttons, and suddenly the screen is fine. Voila!
Then, after all that, it asks if I want a receipt. Yes. Obviously I want a receipt.I want a paper trail proving the peanuts entered the bag through legal channels, because I know this machine.
And I’ll be back, because of course I’ll be back. I’ll need gum or Advil or some tiny emergency item that and the second I put it in the bag, the machine will act betrayed again, like I showed up with contraband instead of doing the exact thing it spent the last twelve seconds instructing me to do. It beeped. I moved the item. That was the agreement. I don’t know when the terms changed, but apparently I’m the only one still honoring them.
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