In an effort to save money and frustrate customers, Boomers have noticed that most grocery stores have installed do-it-yourself checkout stations where people who have always wanted to bag their own groceries can have at it. No longer will a loaf of bread be placed beneath two 48 ounce jars of pasta sauce nor a carton of eggs be lumped in with several liters of roly-poly bottles of Seven Up. For once, you can bag as you see fit, so long as it’s in plastic bags, which squash everything and send cans and apples sprawling when you put them in the back seat of the car.
A self-service checkout station is also an instructional format in the study of produce, such that an average person will somehow be able to distinguish between an organic cucumber at $6 a pound or an ordinary one at 59 cents.
I use the self service stations as often as I can, except when Ethel is on duty. Ethel is the computer voice at station number 6 at Kroger’s. She only works part time since she is a union computer and not a right-to-worker. Those union robots are real bitches. I hate to get in her station, but sometimes she’s the only one available with all the other stations on Senior Wednesdays occupied by 90-year old ladies with purses teeming with expired coupons.
For them: “Help is on the way.”
So it’s Ethel.
“Touch the screen to get started,” she instructs.
So I do.
“Now swipe your Kroger card if you have one or I’ll charge you approximately three times more than your groceries would normally cost.”
Then I swipe my Kroger’s Plus card, which is now so mangled that I can’t imagine how the scanner makes out the little UPC lines, but it does.
“It’s you, is it? I didn’t think you’d be back. I figured all that trans fat stuff you bought would have killed you by now. So what’ll it be?”
I place a bag of oranges on the scanner and Ethel wants to know just what the hell I’m trying to weigh.
“Either put in the code number or describe by picture,” she barks out.
Since all the sticker codes have been removed by the little old ladies who fondled each orange in the store before buying just one, I am forced to describe my purchase by a picture. So I start trying to draw a picture of an orange on my screen when Ethel loses it.
“Not you, dummy. Use one of our pictures, not yours.”
So I pull up pictures of oranges and there are eleven varieties.
Let’s see – California oranges, Mexican oranges, Florida oranges, navel oranges, North Pole oranges, etc.
I’m pretty sure these are not North Pole oranges, so I click Florida oranges. I figure they need the business more than the California growers.
“Are you sure these are Florida oranges?” Ethel inquires.
“I’m not sure. How about ‘Help is on the way?’”
“Alright, let’s assume they are Florida oranges. How many are in the bag”
I punch in five and Ethel tells me I owe her five dollars and to place my purchase in the bagging area.’
So I did. Next I scan a packet of taco seasoning. It’s 79-cents.
“Place your purchase in the bagging area.” Ethel demands.
“I did.”
“Place your purchase in the bagging area.”
“I did.”
“Put your damned purchase in the bagging area,” she repeats.
“I did.”
“No you did not.”
“I did. It just doesn’t weigh enough to register.”
Finally, to appease Ethel. I put my thumb on the weigh-in scales and Ethel ultimately consented to continue to process the order.
Ultimately, with the help of the United Nations Security Council, Ethel and I came to an agreement on our differences and agreed to the final price.
All this sorta’ makes Boomers nostalgic for the good old days when grocery stores had high school kids bagging groceries and folks who helped you carry them to your car.