Self-help

We all know people that have done it. C’mon, you’ve done it too, even if you won’t admit it. It’s not normal; it can feel wrong, a bit dirty even, like you’re cheating the system. But it’s right there, after all. And if all your friends are doing it, why shouldn’t you?

The self-checkout aisle. You love it. You hate it. You can’t live without it. You’d go buy your girlfriend some tampons just for the chance to MAYBE use it.

Because you don’t decide ahead of time that you’re going to use the self-checkout, you can’t decide that until you’re done shopping. You may get there, and decide that there’s too many people, but you want to use it, so you go buy something pointless, at the other end of the store, on the hopes that when you come back, there’s less people to see you screw up. I’ll throw you a bone here. Lipton onion soup mix. It’s the old stand-by. Find out where it is in your supermarket, and whenever you need to buy yourself some time, you can stride to it with confidence, like you meant to buy it all along. Besides, how great is that stuff anyways? It probably saved your ass more than once. You gotta have instant respect for anything that can be mixed with sour cream or water with equally good, if over-sodium-ed, results. And, if you ever get attacked by a badger, Lipton’s onion soup mix will instantly cauterize the wound. But don’t take my word for it. Take LeVar Burton’s. There’s a reason he wears the visor. Yes, they had badgers on the Enterprise. I can’t believe you’d ever think otherwise. If they’ve got Puerto Ricans, why wouldn’t they have badgers?

Racism isn’t funny kids. Then again, neither are badgers.

But let’s live in the now for a bit, shall we? You’ve got your basket, and you can see the self-checkout….area, for lack of a better word, lurking at the other end of the store, that no-man’s land that’s a bare step up from the diaper/cleaning supply aisle in terms of popularity, is also happens to be located close to both the exit and the locked gun closet in the manager’s office, in case things get a little out of hand. And you know they will.

So you saunter over there, all hot shit with your free-range tofu and Canadian pine/lemon hybrids (ever wonder where the idea for Pine-Sol came from? You’re welcome). But there’s a line. At least, you think it’s a line. Maybe it’s two lines. Maybe the lady reaching for gum isn’t in the line, but she’s going to be. Is there one line per block of terminals? Is there one line total for all the terminals, and you just veer slightly left or right depending on which one is free? The second one is far more efficient, although then you’ve got no one to “beat” in the other line, which detracts from the overall vindication of the thing, but cuts down dramatically on inter-line violence.

Bingo! You spy the one slightly obscured terminal which isn’t being used, but is it because no one else notices, and you’re just that observant, or is it because it’s broken? The red light’s not flashing, but maybe the bulb’s burned out. Do you go over there? If you do and it doesn’t work out for you, will the rest of the line let you back in? And in the front no less? You already screwed up once, what makes you think you deserve a second chance? Trust me…NO ONE KNOWS. This is the reason that God invented lemmings…so we’d have something lower on the intellect chain to relate to, and then follow suit appropriately, while avoiding blame for our actions. Damn, it feels good to be American.

The best situation to be in is either A) there is no line, so you can get your groove on in the space that’s supposed to be a line, or B) there is a line, but you’ve got earphones on, which allow you to follow suit and remain just oblivious enough to the people around you that you can be held even less accountable for following said suit. And who is this suit that we’re following?

Yes, press that button to start. Or don’t press it, and just start scanning away. Because you can do that. It may not seem like much, saving those 2 seconds. But it’s no longer about you. It’s about everyone else in line behind you. Feel those beady eyes bearing down on you, impatiently waiting with their fat-injected rotisserie chickens and Glade plug-ins? They want you to scan faster than any normal check-out person who has ever lived. There’s a reason you never, ever see someone with a shopping cart in the self-checkout. They would be beaten to death by everyone behind them with those crappy plastic baskets. Because self check-out is like Lord of the Flies…it’s survival of the fittest, the quickest. Better find that bar code quick. Actually, you should already know where it is. What were you doing while you were waiting in line? If you look back and the guy behind you is putting on war-paint with a tube of tomato paste, I’m sorry dude, but you’re screwed. If you wanted to piss away your time, maybe you’d have been happier in one of those dictatorial regular checkout lines.

After all, that’s why you’re in the self-checkout in the first place, right? Because you think you’re faster than Ned, who’s been working the register in aisle 4 since you moved to town 6 years ago, and who by now you’re pretty sure had that gold star on his name tag cut-and-pasted from a 1st grade spelling test by his mom. This is Ned, who stumbles when you hand your club card to him a split second before he asks, and only the metronome-like gum-chewing from the bagging girl helps to bring him back from the brink of needing the shock paddles. Ned, who makes you roll your eyes when he doesn’t know his Spanish onions from his white, and needs to consult “the book,” or worse, the floor manager. C’mon Ned! WTF? And then you watch the monitor, making sure that the price comes up right, because if not, SO HELP ME GOD NED, it’s all YOUR fault!

Back in the self-checkout world, where you have no one to blame but yourself, it’s all about speed. You’re gonna kick ass at this. But the stakes are high. You’ve got a head of broccoli; what do you do? You have to “look up item,” then remember how to spell the damn thing, and find it on the list. But wait, is it broccoli, broccolini, broccoflower? Organic, or *gasp* conventional? That’s why you have a couple of boxed items…you can scan them quick, make up time for your ineptitude of veggie knowledge. Where’s your precious Ned now, eh?

And bringing your own bag just proves that no good deed goes unpunished. That whole bagging shelf is a fine-tuned scale. Look at it wrong and the machine shouts out “unknown item in the bagging area! Stacy, get the fuck over here!” and then the infamous red light blinks, letting everyone know that you failed…you, and only you. And the entire line behind you gives this exasperated sigh, because you let down the whole team. It’s high school JV soccer all over again, and now tomato war-paint guy has just snapped the end off his Swiffer mop, looking for blood.

So you have to out-think the machine. You scan the first item, something heavier and with a larger surface area, like that industrial-sized block of gouda. You look at the gouda, then at your bag. Then, being the bad-ass you are, you Indian Jones that crap, and place it in the bagging area together, in one fell swoop, praying the machine can’t tell the weight difference. Suck it, “skip bagging” button! You know you’re faster than the machine. By the time it’s saying “please scan your first item” you’re already feeding it dollar bills like a North Shore stripper.

Of course, you can tweak the whole operation a bit…make it your own. Scan your discount card at the beginning. Personally, I like to do it at the end, which gives you enough time for a nodding “Who’s the man?!” half-smile to the line behind you as all your savings pile up like nickel slots. Go ahead and wrap that receipt around your neck like a silk scarf…you’ve earned it. Then give Stacy a slap on the ass, a wink and a nod to Ned, who still has no idea who the hell you are, and skate on out of there.