I’m waxing nostalgic and talking to myself in public

No, I’m not on my mobile phone. I’m talking to myself because I’ve absolutely lost all shred of sanity.

I’m so done. Call me Caren. I don’t care.

Picture this headline: A simple trip to Walmart results in a heretofore sane and highly intelligent woman arrested for mayhem.

Calm down, Caren, you say. Take a pill. Chill. (As you cruelly use your cellphone to record my nervous breakdown.)

Before you malign me to the planet’s residents, hear me out.

Hubby was busy with a work project, so I offered to do the food shopping solo. We only have a few items to get, I said. It won’t take me more than 45 minutes, I said.

At least I was confident when I left the house and drove the 10 minutes to our local Walmart.

The shopping itself was pleasant enough. The store is well-stocked and well-organized. And I found some lovely bargains in housewares and in produce.

A scan of my digital list confirmed I had acquired each item. Good. Done. Off to the checkout line.

Here’s where my wristwatch stress meter slammed into the red band:

Midday food shopping rush. Six out of 15 cashier lines open. At least six to eight people were in line at each register.

Do you think, maybe, stores could begin assessing increased service-demand times so a sufficient number of registers could be manned or womaned? Or is it that the “I like my unemployment, Doritos, and daytime television” crowd is still unwilling to work for a living and man or woman those registers?

In either case, I’m already slipping into my malcontent persona. I have a work project to complete by day’s end and two customers are expecting proposals with cost estimates. Never mind, I need to call my mother. And water the plants. And change the cat litter. And complete my steps for the day. And pay bills. And make dinner.

And work on my Stop Taking On Too Much remote coaching course.

Breathe. Assess.

The self-checkout portion of my local Walmart includes six registers in a boxed-out area. Imagine a rectangle 100 by 40 feet. Four registers are along the long section; one is on each of the side, shorter sections.

And everyone defaulting to self-checkout is squished into that area with their carts and kids.

To top off this shit-show with bloody cherries and vomit syrup, a Walmart stock clerk is stocking cereal on a display within the self-check out area. She is operating a motorized lift supporting a cracked wooden pallet, causing all the boxes to tip precariously. Her fear is evident in her darting eyes as she attempts to right the tip and secure the boxes submitting to gravity. The next person in the self-checkout moves forward, pushing past the desperate stock clerk. A few cereal boxes topple to the floor. Another worker notices and rushes over to assist.

I decide the self-check out shit show is preferable to waiting with the 50 people on line. They all seem to have a screaming toddler in tow. And mounded groceries on two carts. And I only have fifteen items. I’ll be done in the time it takes for a Pandora commercial.

Sigh.

I’m next in line and hope I’m long gone before the 200 boxes of Cracker Puffs tumble to the floor and burst open, revealing the magically delicious mess. As I move forward, I rest beside the cereal stocker trooper. She gives me an I hate my life look. I smile and assure her she will be okay. Appreciative for the kindness, she moves to the right to let me pass easily.

Of course, two of the self-checkout registers are marked out-of-order. And out of the four remaining, only three have patrons. The fourth is surrounded by three employees poking at it like the apes in 2001: A Space Odyssey.

I laugh to myself and watch the three patrons before me ringing and bagging their items.

My watch, still showing my stress in the red-hot-sun zone, tells me from the time I left the house until this moment has stolen a half hour of my life. I’m a bit behind schedule, sure. No worries. I have fifteen items.

And I was a cashier in a former life. I understand UPC code scanning. I can flatten a wrapper to scan with the best of them. I’ve got this.

The couple in at the register to my right finishes and waits for their receipt. The cereal stock clerk finishes and backs the forklift out of the space. It’s quiet. I’m confident all is well. And it’s my turn.

I approach the register and place my items to my right so I can easily take from the basket, scan, weigh and scan, bag, pay. Easy. I scan the toiletries. This is when I realize the New Jersey law making bags illegal has gone into effect.

I left my canvas bags in my car.

No matter. I unload the entire cart onto the metal shelf to my right. I move the cart to my left and place the scanned items there. I notice the store camera above my head and the supervisor watching me intently. I’ve never stolen a thing in my life, but feel guilty.

I continue to scan. The coffee. The chips. The turkey from the deli. It’s going well. Until the cereal.

The scanner will not accept the code. Six times, I slide the box over the thin red lights. In bright yellow text, the screen flashed and screams: PLEASE WAIT FOR ASSISTANCE. I wait for assistance. That takes some time because the supervisor is still pondering the size of her belly button at register one. The other two employees continue to poke at the machine with pens and fingers. One shakes the screen. Apparently, the monolith has not yet emitted its pulse to trigger cognizance.

I finally garner the supervisor’s attention. She does not make eye contact as she swipes her badge over the scanner, scans the box, tries again, and again. Frowns. Tries a fourth time. It works. She returns to the ape conference where one of the group is now tearful and mumbling something about Target paying more.

I do not envy them that job. I’ve had that job. I’ve womaned a register. I’ve unraveled a paper receipt roll with insistent patrons glaring at me. I’ve stocked shelves and done inventory. I’ve sliced deli roast beef thin, please, and weighed it to exactly 28 tenths of a pound. No wonder the registers remain unmanned and unwomaned. Who the hell wants tipping cereal pallets and malfunctioning scanners in an environment of screaming toddlers and complaining customers?

The line behind me grows to six more people who also do not want to add their party to the growing full-service register line snakes.

I feel that pressure to hurry. That anxiety of being watched. The psychic message: Will you please get done? What’s taking you so long?

Reaching for the bag of apples, I find the code. I also find the panel will not accept any entry. I can’t type a thing. I try to use the find item option. I select A for apple, but it won’t work. I press harder. I swipe my finger over the pad. On the sixth attempt, the A menu appears. I select apple. Nothing changes. I try three more times and the machine records avocados. At $8 each.

I hear Also Sprach Zarathustra in my mind.

While waiting for the less than happy supervisor, who is bouncing between her repair the scanner meeting and the other operating self-check out customers, and me, I consider my existence. I check my watch. The stress meter is pinned and a warning message pops up: Try breathing exercises. Ready? Begin.

I lower my arm. I scan the eggs. I usually do those last so I can include them with the bread and place them in the seat portion of the carriage, but I am fearful of the produce. I reach for the bananas. The scanner accepts the code and asks for me to place the bananas on the scale. I comply. The scale registers four pounds. My four bananas price at $16.

TANTRUM

When the supervisor leaves after clearing the banana fiasco from the machine, I realize I’m mumbling to myself with phrases audible to those standing in the burgeoning line behind me. In my hazy memory, clouded by red-zone stress and blind rage, I recall the following conversation with no one, myself, and the absentee landlord we call God:

Fucking machines. Whose idea is it to even create this torture device? Probably created by Oppenheimer. Why won’t this machine take this fucking code? Come on! Are you kidding me? It’s not peaches, these are mangos. And no, it’s not 60 of them, it’s 6. I never pressed the zero, Hal.

Did I press the zero Hal? Open the pod bay doors, you piece of shit. I’m so sorry, I guess this machine is having issues. Yes, I did press enter. No, I didn’t press the zero. Yes, I can manage. Thank you for offering to complete my order.

Bitch thinks I’m a moron. I have a PhD, lady. I can operate this — Damn it! Are you serious? It’s potatoes. Just scan. Dear God and all that’s holy. Come on! Okay. Good. Now just a few more.

Zucchini. Where’s the code? Oh, great. These don’t have a sticker. Z. Where’s the Z? Ah. Okay. What if I push really hard? Nope. I’ll swipe again. I’ll just pound it. Yes yes yes. Nope. Oh. Z. Zucchini. The only Z. Pressing. Pressing. Okay. Now, four. Four. No, I don’t need to weigh these! Jesus!

Please, someone, explain to me why I am living this nightmare? Shouldn’t I get a discount if I am using the self-checkout? I mean seriously. Walmart is saving serious coin by not hiring someone who could use this job. Shouldn’t I get a discount because I’m doing the work? I think I should –

Damn it! It’s not peanuts. It’s lettuce. How the hell do you get peanuts from L? Where is the code? No code. That’s a guava sticker. On the lettuce. Gross. All these stickers. Just take the L, take it, take it. Ugh. Okay.

Last but not least. The bread. It scans easily.

No, I don’t have any coupons. I have a migraine.

Here’s my card. $180 for 15 items. And no credit for the, consulting my watch, almost 30 minutes of labor. Where’s my $7 credit?

As I tear my receipt from the feed, another manager approaches. He places an out-of-order sign on the machine I just battled. The line behind me groans. His sheepish smile attempts an apology.

Where is the customer service? Where?

When I was a child, we would bring our cart to the register and the cashier would ring up every item on an actual register. Not a Hal or IBM or iMac in sight. No point of service torture device. The cashier would ask how we all were. She knew our names. She’d hand my brother a lollypop. The manager went to our church. He would offer a wave to my mom. The bag person (usually a young man; often Henry) would take the items out of the cart for the cashier and bag them carefully, using double bags. Mom would hand the smiling cashier, Delores, cash. She would say thank you, Delores. Delores would say thank you, Missus Schmidt. See you next week. Then Henry would push the cart to the car and unload the bags into the trunk. And he would smile. Have a nice day, Schmidt Family.

And we would all have a nice day.

But I didn’t have some wrist computer telling me I was relaxed and happy.

Life is so much better now.