Why self-checkout is terrible

We asked two Globe writers to give us their takes on self-checkout. Read Hiawatha Bray’s opposing viewpoint here.

Self-checkout represents all that’s rotten about rugged American individualism. Framed under the guise of efficiency, it is actually alienating and frustrating. Also? It never works.

First: The average civilian shopper is not a checkout professional. It’s already embarrassing to discover how hard it can be to stop yourself from leaving Target with $234.94 worth of throw pillows and linen-scented candles when really you were just zipping in for some Advil. You know what’s truly mortifying? Pressing the wrong button, triggering an alarm, and forcing an aggrieved staffer to trek across the store with a ring of keys while you stand there like a stunned chicken trying to hide your Doritos, Monistat, and seasonal wreath from prying eyes.

Next, let’s consider the flawed business case. Presumably, companies install self-checkout to reduce labor. Here’s what really happens: First, a hapless customer sets off an alarm because the bar code for their Essie “Dusty Vacation Memory” nail polish was incorrectly applied. Next, a staffer is summoned via intercom, repeatedly, to rescue the poor buffoon. This person enters a 3,000-digit code to unlock the screen, nothing happens, and a manager is then located to rescue everyone. All the while, a line forms, forcing a third employee to behave like a bouncer at a Taylor Swift concert, encouraging people to disperse to other aisles. You won’t find this case study in the Harvard Business Review, but we all know it’s true. Instead of reducing labor, three people have become enmeshed in a completely unnecessary drama.

Thirdly, self-checkout eliminates the peaceful rituals of shopping. When I’m idling in a traditional checkout line, I can browse tabloids without shame: Princess Diana found working at a diner in Idaho, J.Lo gives birth to quintuplets who resemble Mike Pence. I might even indulge in an impulsive Reese’s peanut butter cup. At self-checkout, it’s all business. No gossip, no candy, just your debit card and a plea to donate $1 to the Society for Quilters With Chicken Pox.

Fourth, bagging items is a task best left to the experts. Admit it: When you bag your own items at self-checkout, you feel incompetent. Use one meager plastic sack, and you’re at risk of everything falling through the bottom. Go for two, and you appear inefficient and greedy. Of course, this also assumes that you find a place to stash your items during pre-baggage purgatory, wherein you’re forced to stack your Kleenex, Zyrtec, and deodorant on a sticky rubber surface like the Leaning Tower of Toiletries, praying it doesn’t collapse.

Fifth and finally: the sheer hypocrisy. These are stores that keep shaving razors behind plexiglass, yet they’ll allow any idiot to check out 1,000 pounds of Oreos on their own. The logic is flawed. The process is depressing. And that’s why you will always find me in the traditional checkout line, reading the National Enquirer with throw pillows and snacks, the way nature intended.