“Please place your item in the bagging area.”
You never wanted to be in the self-checkout lane, but here you are.
To your left are rows and rows of people visibly regretting their decision to go grocery shopping today.
You see them standing in line shoulders slumped, mouths muted, some contemplating dinner, others contemplating death.
Which leaves you with only one option:
Go to the slightly less crowded line where you get to do all the work and pay for the privilege.
Self-checkout.
But there’s a problem.
In front of you is a woman who appears to be shopping for the first time in her entire life.
Her cart is a slow-rolling disaster: loose vegetables with no bags, three different brands of almond milk, and a very confident but totally unnecessary pineapple.
There’s no bagging plan.
No urgency.
Just her and the machine—two star-crossed strangers meeting each other for the first time.
She stares at the screen like it’s written in Morse code then finally picks up an onion.
After a moment of working up the courage like someone defusing a bomb—she scans.
“Please place the item in the bagging area.”
She obeys, placing the onion in the bagging area.
But that’s when it all happens.
“Please place the item in the bagging area.”
She freezes.
Her eyes dart between the screen, the onion, and the slowly growing mob behind her, like she’s unsure if she actually placed the onion down.
She looks to the crowd again, hoping for some sign of support.
And finds none.
Then brushes her thumb from the corner of her mouth to her chin, deep in philosophical contemplation—thinking maybe, just maybe, the onion doesn’t belong there.
Meanwhile, you squeeze your eyes shut so they don’t pop out of your head while silently thinking: Fuck this grocery store and make a pact to never to shop here again.
You will.
The woman picks up the onion once more, holds it like it’s contagious, then sets it back down.
“Please place the item in the bagging area.”
She sighs—one of those deep, guttural sighs that sounds like it traveled up from her toes.
Then turns her head slowly toward the store, as if expecting a manager to descend from the ceiling.
But no one is coming.
Not today.
Not in this economy.
You glance away, unable to take this torture a moment longer and remember a simpler time—pre-internet—when grocery store clerks were rude, but were all-too-happy to bag.
Behind you, someone shifts their weight dramatically, hoping to be noticed. Another person pulls out their phone, and behind him a guy in flip-flops mutters something about “society crumbling,” completely unaware his fly is undone.
“Please remove the item,” the machine burps, and the lady throws her hands on her hips.
From behind you, someone with less patience says, “You have to wait till it registers the weight.” And you can faintly hear: “You fucking idiot.”
Someone else chimes in, “You’re putting it on too fast.”
They can’t even see the machine, but they’re certain they know how to fix it.
A man two lanes over yells, “Pick it up and put it down again!” like he’s giving CPR instructions.
Everyone’s an expert.
And everyone assumes she is the problem.
But all you want to do is go home.
The woman gives a tight-lipped smile—equal parts rage and customer service—and tries again.
The onion goes down while the screen blinks up.
Beep.
“Please place the item in the bagging area.”
She’s unraveling—held together by her last frayed thread of dignity. And just as she teeters on the brink of a breakdown—red eyes, clenched jaw—salvation arrives.
A manager appears. Mid-30s. Eye bags. Smelling faintly of menthols and apathy.
She takes one look at the machine and says, “Oh, this stupid thing? It’s always broken.”
Then pulls out a laminated card like a magic wand and resets the entire universe with a flick.
The woman exhales. Equal parts relieved, annoyed, and still suspicious of the machine.
Looking at it, she says, “Why don’t you just stick around in case—”
But when she turns, the manager is gone—faded into breakroom like the ghost of a good employee.
The woman shakes her head and tears through the rest of checkout with quiet fury.
Twelve people bore holes into her back.
Until—finally—she’s done.
Total: $42.83
She inserts her card.
The machine processes.
The light blinks.
The tension thickens.
DECLINED.
She freezes.
Mouth slightly open. Eyes blinking in betrayal.
Then, without a word, she throws her hands up and bolts.
Gone.
You look around for some communal response—maybe shared sympathy or a knowing glance.
Nothing.
No one has any kindness left.
Everyone just wants to go home.
Most of all, you.
You feel everything: pity, smugness, vengeance, shared trauma, secondhand shame.
Yet you keep shopping.
Until finally…
It’s your turn.
You step up.
One item. Just one.
You scan.
You place it in the bagging area.
“Unexpected item in the bagging area.”
Please like, comment, share and tell me what you think. Has this happened to you? Send to a frustrated friend.
SIgn up for my substack here for more funny stories: Tonysbologna | Anthony Robert | Substack
I write out cheques on the rare occasion that I go out grocery shopping. i can feel everyone’s friendliness when I take out the faux leather checkbook and give my pen the fingertwist and the ol’ clickeriridoo ☠️😂 Mike
What gets me is when you have to look up a code and the cashier (are they a re cashier if they don’t run a cash register) teaches you how to find it instead of just doing it. listen lady, its six-thirty in the morning and its just me and you. Punch the numbers in so I can get to my job!
Absolutely!! Thank you for reading
So true!
It’s the collapse of society lmao
Always paranoid of making a mistake and the attendant thinks I’m stealing something.
It’s funny – yeah I felt that way too
Oh! I am so glad to know this is a universal, international issue! I’m British and as much as we Brits are genuinely preconditioned to love to stand in line for any reason under the sun, it’s a truth universally acknowledged that we all hate self-service machines. My local grocery store had to hire additional staff just to stand around to deal with all the foul ups! The store then re-opened the old style check outs because it was more efficient. So that was a bit of karma at least 🙂 Thanks for sharing!
It’s ridiculous isn’t it? Hate the darned things.
Oh to suffer is to be human
Those things are rigged for failure. Sometimes when scanning multiple of the same item, it assumes an error and auto calls the attendant who has to unlock the screen and complete scanning you through, essentially creating a less efficient actual checkout line. Technology has turned me into a pessimistic grump
Me too my friend, me too
Ever notice how the person in front of you in line always takes a really long time? Self check-out is the worst.
Everytime my friend, everytime
I actually prefer the self-checkouts where I am. There aren’t often problems with them, and I make far fewer mistakes than the cashiers do, probably because I haven’t been doing it all day until my mind is completely numbed.
That’s fair. When people have fresh minds and aren’t staring at numbers, a screen, and impatient and tired looking people all day, they can get through things pretty quick. Customer service is too brutal.
Lots of cashiers today can’t count change – thank you for reading
I went to the self checkout once. Once. By the time I was finished fighting with the damned thing my frustration was at biblical levels. I made a pact with god. If he would let me finish and get out of there without commiting murder, or at least vandalism that I wouldn’t do it again. Well, he got me out of the situation safely, and I haven’t gone back. Not a chance in this world will I do that again!
That’s okay, at least you got to try it out once and decided it wasn’t for you. I probably would have done the same thing too if the machine was being as difficult as it was the day you gave it a try.
Keep up the good fight soldier
Laughing my head off here because it’s so true. What annoys me is that the system doesn’t like me putting my bag in the bagging area so I can put the items into it. I’m supposed to put the items there, then put them in the bag after I’ve paid, so the process takes twice as long and isn’t an efficient use of my time. Mad and maddening. 🤨
I agree! Every time I want to start bagging my things, it tells me to either put my things back or take my bag off. I’m always arguing with the self checkouts because it seems to like wasting our time.
‘The Rise of the ‘Machines’. They’re taking over, and having a laugh at us in the process. 🤔
It’s The Rise of the Terminators! Except of granting us a quick and merciful death, they find pleasure in our suffering with not having things go our way!!!
🤣🤣🤣 Absolutely! ‘Transaction terminated’ unless we do exactly as they say!
Oh that’s a great spoof
That they are
Couldn’t sgree more
This happened to me last night, the lady behind me offered to open a register to help the cashier.
Hahaha that’s great
Relatable… from both ends of the story!
Thank you so much! Appreciate you reading
Good Lord! This is my life. But in the checkout line manned by a human being, the person in front of you chats up the checkout person, and produces the method of payment only after completing the conversation, such as it is.
I’ve been reading Marcus Aurelius as a result. Sometimes he and Seneca are the only things that keep me going at the grocery store.