(Walks to mic, adjusts stand, takes a breath)
I’ve come to a quiet realization about grocery shopping. We don’t go to stores anymore. We go to unpaid internships. I used to walk into a supermarket with a cart, buy my food, and leave. Now I walk in, grab a basket, and get handed a shift. No onboarding. No direct deposit. Just a screen that expects me to know how to weigh a cucumber.
The self-checkout doesn’t help you. It manages you. It talks to you like a very disappointed shift supervisor. “Please place the item in the bagging area.” Thank you. I will. “Item not recognized.” It’s a box of crackers. It’s been a box of crackers since the Reagan administration. You’re the one struggling here, Brenda. And that voice. Always this calm, synthetic woman who sounds exactly three beeps away from filing a formal complaint. “Unexpected item in the bagging area. Please wait for assistance.” I didn’t expect it either! I just wanted to buy pasta and a single lemon. Now I’m frozen in place like I’m waiting for a hostage negotiator while a teenager named Tyler walks over at the speed of a ceiling fan.
The bagging area is a psychological experiment. It’s not a shelf. It’s a scale that thinks it’s a detective. You set your groceries down with the care of a bomb squad technician, and it immediately panics. “Weight discrepancy.” Discrepancy from what? From the ghost grocery list it’s reading from? I swear if I exhale too hard, it locks the screen and flashes a manager override code. At that point, I’m not a shopper. I’m a suspect. I’m being cross-examined by a touchscreen. “Sir, step away from the frozen peas.” I’m just trying to make dinner. Release me.
And the worst part is, we all just nod and comply. We’re out here working for free, scanning our own stuff, bagging our own stuff, occasionally paying a dollar more than we would’ve at the register, all to save the store fourteen cents on labor. Meanwhile, the machine gets a software update, I get home with three bruised tomatoes, and we’ve collectively decided this is progress. Next, they’ll just install a conveyor belt in your kitchen and you’ll scan your own dish soap while a robotic voice tells you your life choices are invalid.
I tried the human lanes last week. Forty people deep. Everyone standing there in silent, shared exhaustion. I looked back at the checkout kiosk. The screen blinked. I sighed. Put my keys down. And scanned my own acceptance.
Thank you. You’ve been great. I’m out of here before my loyalty points expire.
(Steps back, nods, exits)