Once upon a time, shopping meant human interaction. When Walmart first opened in Niceville, there were 115 cashiers’ stations. Now they’re down to two because of self-checkouts. At first, I thought self-checkouts were great. I didn’t have to listen to the grumpy cashier complain that she was supposed to have gone on break ten minutes ago while she slammed the unbruised apples I so carefully picked out onto the scanner.

Self-checkouts sounded wonderful. Skip the line. Scan it yourself. Quick and easy. Ha! Lies. Sweet, automated lies! I tell myself I’m just picking up a few items, and I will be in and out in minutes. I spot the self-checkouts glowing in the distance like a beacon of modern convenience. Then I see the line snaked around all the way back to the produce aisle. To make matters worse, people are entering from two different directions, and there’s no yield sign. Of the thirty self-checkouts, twenty-six are out of order. The other two don’t accept cash.

I finally make it to one of the working stations and scan my first item. BEEP. Ah! The sound of success. I scan my second item. Nothing. I scan it again. Still nothing. Then finally BEEP BEEP. Now I have to disturb the paid self-checkout babysitter who’s busy with her nose in her phone. She gives me an annoyed look and shuffles over to scan her magic badge and press some buttons. Then she leaves me on my own so she can get back to her phone.
In a moment of health-conscious ambition, I decided to buy some produce. But now I’m faced with the touchscreen of confusion. I search “bananas.” The machine asks, “Organic bananas, fair trade bananas, single banana, plantains, or overripe bananas that should have been removed from the produce section?” I panic and pick the first option. It cost 79 cents more than the ones I actually bought, but I don’t want to disturb the employee with her head in her phone again. I try to find “cilantro.” I give up and call the attendant again.

I ring up the paper towels that are on sale for a dollar. The scanner rings up $6.97. I consider arguing with the machine, but I know I will lose. I summon the attendant again, giving her my most gracious smile. She responds with another badge swipe, an eye roll, and a belabored sigh.

Since I have five bottles of Diet Coke, I decide to be smart and scan one bottle five times, rather than go through the labor-intensive scanning of each bottle individually. I bag all five bottles. A robotic voice pipes up, “Unauthorized item in bagging area.” The attendant stomps over for the fourth time, and I try not to look guilty. She taps something and, to my horror, I see a replay of a video of myself moving Diet Cokes from my cart across the scanner to place them in bags without actually scanning them. I wasn’t trying to steal them, honest. She gives me the stink eye like I WAS trying to cheat Walmart out of four Diet Cokes. Seriously? If I were going to be dishonest, I would at least try to smuggle the Filet Mignon, not Diet Coke. I’m not stupid! I explain that I scanned the first bottle five times. She brings up the receipt to find I am, in fact, telling the truth. By now, I’m beginning to feel like this millennial and I are in a toxic relationship.

“Thank you and have a blessed day,” I say to her. She is apparently hard of hearing, as she doesn’t reply.

I finally scan my last item, and hear, “Please place the item in the bagging area.” I JUST DID THAT! I try to convince the machine that my can of beans is exactly where it should be. Fortunately, the babysitter is assisting someone else. I hurriedly insert my credit card, which the machine refuses to accept. Gritting my teeth, I whip out my debit card and complete my transaction. The machine says, “Don’t forget your receipt,” in a cheerful voice as if it hasn’t been gaslighting me for the last fifteen minutes. I grab the foot-long scroll of paper that documents my struggle at the self-checkout.

As I roll my buggy toward the door, a voice booms, “Can I see your receipt?”

I pause. I’ve stuffed the receipt somewhere into the nether regions of my purse, which I must now attempt to retrieve so one more person doesn’t accuse me of being less than honest.

As I push my cart to my car, I’m thinking, I scanned everything myself. I bagged everything myself. I survived the clearance sale betrayal and the Diet Coke controversy, as well as paying more than I should have for bananas. I’ve proved my innocence twice.

I believe I should be nominated for Employee of the Month. I’m also sending Walmart a bill for my services.