I
‘ve lamented previously about the ever-increasing presence of self-checkout machines, and I feel compelled to do so again as my mood worsens with each visit to my local major supermarket. Two decades ago, when I first became a customer, there were around twenty manned checkouts. However, as time passed and progress relentlessly advanced, a few self-checkouts emerged while a few human-operated ones disappeared. Initially, we regarded self-checkouts as harmless novelties. They were often out of order, and when they did function, they rarely worked correctly. The entire process required a significant number of staff to supervise the machines, far more than needed for a regular set of tills. Nonetheless, we indulged the management, appreciating their need to explore new ideas.
Subsequently, the number of self-checkouts grew, and manned tills became increasingly scarce. It became a zero-sum game. Some machines always seemed to be out of service, and the rest would invariably have a glitch waiting to frustrate customers. Just the other day, I experienced a frustrating encounter with some wilted geraniums on a three-for-£5 promotion—they simply refused to scan. In the end, I obtained them at no cost, but they perished soon after.
The next wave in this onslaught witnessed automated tills occupying more space than their human counterparts—a tipping point toward extinction. And that ominous day is drawing nearer. Additional territory has now been claimed by a dozen new, larger self-checkouts that can accommodate trolleys instead of just baskets. While this may be seen as convenient, a fresh torment has emerged. As a barrier to leave this area, one must now swipe the barcode on the receipt. How cruel. I imagined individuals like my father successfully navigating the machine but then struggling futilely with the exit barrier. “You need a code!” someone would shout. “A code?” he would echo in bewilderment. He would certainly be delayed.
I inquired of the unfortunate woman working there what on earth they were thinking. She whispered, shrugging in despair, “It’s terrible. Elderly people, disabled people…” Her voice trailed off as someone yelled about an item that wouldn’t scan, and she hurried away.
In the distance, nestled near the freezers, the remaining three checkout staff continued their work, almost as if for old time’s sake. Before long, there will likely be only one human-operated till, perhaps requiring advance booking to use. And then, on a gloomy day, the endgame will arrive—no human-operated tills remaining. They will only exist in science museums as functional relics, manned by actors, for our grandchildren to marvel at and find humor in.
The entire situation borders on the dystopian, reminding me of something I couldn’t quite grasp. Yet, as I shuffled past the tobacco counter, it struck me. What purpose do those roller shutters serve? Are they meant to shield our delicate eyes from the sight of evil cigarettes or to safeguard the stock from a frenzied assault by a trolley-wielding maniac? Regardless, it hit me—the opening lines of “The End of the Trail” by Garrison Keillor:“The last cigarette smokers in America were located in a box canyon south of Donner Pass in the High Sierra by two federal tobacco agents in a helicopter who spotted the little smoke puffs just before noon.”
Yes, it will be like this. Enthusiasts of human-operated checkouts will no longer be seen as charmingly eccentric nostalgics. Instead, we’ll be branded as outlaw counter-revolutionaries by the AI police. We’ll scurry off to long-abandoned workshops in railway arches and simulate shopping experiences, purchasing imaginary goods from real humans. They’ll never apprehend us alive.
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