4011

A few weeks ago, I’m at Safeway. Three items. That’s it. Bananas, a bottle of water, and something else I’ve already forgotten because what happened next erased it from memory.

The regular checkout line is six people deep. A woman with coupons. A man arguing about a price match. A cashier who has clearly made peace with the fact that her shift will never end.

I look at the self-checkout kiosks. Two are open. No line.

I have three items. I am the ideal self-checkout candidate. I was born for this moment.

I should tell you: I work in IT. I’ve sat in meetings and said words like “user experience,” “frictionless,” “paradigm shift,” and “strategy.” I’ve said them with confidence. I’ve said them while gesturing at slides. This is a grocery store kiosk. A touchscreen and a scale. This should be beneath me.

I walked toward the machine like a man who has never been humbled.

Item one scans perfectly. Beep. Bagged.

I’m a professional.

I glance at the regular line. Suckers. I’m already ahead. I might even make eye contact with someone and give them a look that says, “I’ve figured out life.”

This is the peak. I don’t know it yet, but this is the last moment of peace I will experience.

Bananas.

I know the code. 4011. I’ve punched in 4011 more times than I can count. This is not my first banana. I punch it in. I place them on the scale.

“Unexpected item in bagging area.”

I look at the bag. There’s nothing unexpected. It’s the bananas. I told it there were bananas. The bananas are where they should be.

The machine doesn’t care. The machine has decided I’m a liar.

I remove the bananas. I put them back. I wait. Nothing. The screen stares at me. If this machine had a face, it would be looking at me with the kind of disappointment my father reserved for report card day.

A light starts blinking.

Red. Slow. Rhythmic. It might as well be a siren.

I didn’t know this light existed. No one told me about the light. The light is for criminals and people who can’t operate a touchscreen.

Again, I’m in IT. I’ve built things like this. I’ve been in meetings where someone said, “If the user does something wrong, we trigger an alert.” I nodded. I agreed. I thought it was a good idea.

I am now the user who did something wrong. The alert is for me.

There’s an old woman behind me now. There’s a line now. I’ve created a line.

She sighs. Audibly. Performatively. A sigh that could be heard in the parking lot.

She is trying to make eye contact. I can feel it. Her eyes are boring into the side of my skull.

I will not look. I cannot look. If I look, I acknowledge that I am the problem. If I look, I accept judgment from a woman who probably still writes checks at the register.

I stare harder at the screen. The screen offers nothing.

A teenager walks over. Seventeen, maybe. Lanyard. No urgency. A walk that says she’s done this nine times today and her shift doesn’t end for another three hours.

She doesn’t ask what happened. She already knows. She’s seen my kind before.

She badges in. She presses two buttons.

Two.

The machine instantly forgives me. The light stops. The screen resets. The bananas are accepted.

Two buttons. I’ve been standing here for four minutes, and it took two buttons.

She walks away without making eye contact. I have been processed.

I want to explain myself. I want to say, “I’m competent. I have a job. I work with cutting-edge AI, ML technologies.” I say nothing. She’s already gone. She will never know who I am, and that’s probably for the best.

I scan the remaining items like a hostage reading a ransom note. Slow. Careful. No sudden movements.

Every beep is a relief. Every successful scan is a gift I do not deserve.

The machine asks if I brought my own bag. I did not. It judges me for this too.

I pay. I slide my card wrong the first time. Of course I do.

“Please take your receipt.”

I take it. I don’t want it. No one has ever wanted a receipt. But I take it because the machine told me to and I no longer have free will.

I leave quickly. Eyes down. Bag in hand.

I pass the regular checkout line. The coupon woman is still there. She’s negotiating. She’s thriving. She was always going to win.

I came in with three items and left with none of my dignity.

I’ve sat in rooms and talked about “intuitive design.” I’ve probably said the words, “The User should be able to figure this out.”

I was the User. I did not figure it out.

Maybe the lesson is humility. Maybe the lesson is that the manned register exists for a reason. It’s not defeat. It’s self-awareness. It’s choosing peace.

Or maybe there is no lesson. Maybe I just got beaten by bananas and a blinking light, and that’s something I carry with me now.