Week Thirty One
Checked Out
Every once in awhile they'd test you on a Diebold, but NCRs were mostly used for the physical part of the test. Lancelot Diageo had spent the last four months memorizing every key stroke, every arm movement, and even the pacing involved in correctly using one of the machines. He could practically perform the tasks in his sleep. But on his way to the testing center, he had a sudden freakout. A notion that turned into a thought that became on obsession.
What if they changed it up? What if they used a Diebold? What if he failed?
20 minutes ago, failure didn't seem like a possibility. But as his Toyota Camry with autonomous driving capabilities and a crash test rating of 4.5 cruised toward the Center for Commercialism, Lancelot began to sweat. He was acquainted with Diebolds, sure, but he'd never practiced on one.
The line to get into the C.F.C. snaked down the brutalist concrete steps, and wrapped around the block and down the side street. Placed every six feet along the line were motion billboards advertising Xanax-infused hyper-distilled water, frontal-lobe surgeries for smart phone implantations, and vacations to the smokestacks of Bridgeport, Connecticut. The captive audience, inching slowly toward the testing center, would begin subconsciously memorizing the taglines and websites of each ad before they got inside.
Lancelot stood in line, and attempted to pull up information on the Diebolds while he waited. The C.F.C. had geofenced the entire block, removing all access to the internet, save for a few websites on consumer packaged goods, Amazon.com, and, strangely, a speech by the Minister of Sales about the evils of importation.
"Welcome to the C.F.C. My name is Eldridge Nike and I'll be your test proctor today. Let's begin." his name tag hung off his shirt, clinging with it's metallic claw to a small strip of 90% recycled material polymer fabric.
Lancelot ran through the test, answering question after question, and with each his smile grew larger. But no matter how well he did on this part of the test, he'd still have to face the physical test, and if he failed there, he'd fail the whole thing.
Eldridge chimed in with a simple "15 minutes to go," but Lancelot was already reviewing his answers, double checking them for accuracy. He hit the "submit" button on the screen, a brief advertisement played showcasing a new snack food derived from discarded trimmed cat claws, and finally a message popped up saying, "Lancelot Diageo, Your Test Has Been Submitted."
Once all the test takers had completed their exams, Eldridge walked the group down a long hallway and into a large room with large machines covered in purple cloths spread evenly throughout.
Eldridge stood on a small platform overlooking his test takers and spoke with a dictatorial cadence, "Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the Diebold ST-580 Self Checkout Machine." With that, small cables lifted the cloths off the machines and Lancelot's heart sunk.
Assistants stood at each machine with digital pads in their hands. The group was separated into lines of five at the head of each Diebold. Small grocery baskets were handed to each of the participants; each with a unique set of items inside.
Lancelot looked down at his, and saw two bottles of Dr. Lefty's Yellow Drink, a Passchendaele Memorial Mud Cookie Tin, and several boxes of Google AdWords Contact Lenses. He lifted it a few centimeters at a time in an attempt to determine its weight.
Two people stood in front of Lancelot. The first was a man of, at least, 90 whose hands shook with such a tremble that it seemed as if his remaining life were trying to escape through his fingers. Behind the old man, a young girl of 10 or 11 stood confidently.
"Begin!" shouted Eldridge over the masses.
The old man at the front of the line was handling things rather well. He scanned a box of Man's Best Friend Dog Flavored Dog Treats with ease. But his second item, a can of Bethlehem Steel Vienna Sausages wouldn't scan with his tremor-filled hands. The rest of us in line gasped when he reached for the "call for help" button - a death knell. The assistant came over and helped him finish. Once his items were bagged, two men dressed in black with wires falling from their ears came up to him with hands on their tasers.
"Sir, you'll have to come with us." they said in unison.
"Why? What have I done?" he pleaded through a weak voice.
"Sir, by the power invested in me by the Order of Sam Walton, you have failed to properly use a self-checkout machine. You are no longer able to contribute to society. You've been recalled." said one of the men with a flat tone.
As one of the men held the elderly gentleman, another went into his pocket, removed his wallet, and snapped his credit cards in half. Tears fell down the man's face. He looked up at the man holding him and pleaded.
"Please, I have grandchildren. Please don't do this."
Wordlessly, they dragged him away as his Stabe-L Cushioned Shoes with Reinforced Memory Foam soles squeaked along the pristine surface of the floor.
Next up, and with a slight loss in confidence, the young girl began unloading the products from her basket. She scanned her loyalty card with perfection, and placed a bag of Stevia Branded Apples on the scale of the Diebold as soon as she was asked. She was good.
But she missed the large box of Octopus-Derived Retinol Forehead Cream sitting at the end of the belt - no doubt a test by the examiner to see how she'd perform were a customer in front of her taking too long to bag their items. Alarms sounded and again two men dressed in black with identical ear pieces rushed toward her.
"Ma'am, you'll have to come with us," again, said in unison.
"But... but... but... that's not fair!" she sobbed. A small squirm in her attempt to release her arms from the men resulted in one grabbing his Shock Your Flock Taser, and running a few thousand volts of electricity through the young child. Twitching on the floor, and with drool escaping from her unconscious mouth, she was dragged away into a far off room to be recalled.
Lancelot stood at the Diebold. His hands shook. Sweat formed on his palms. His eyes were glassy. The examiner stood at the ready, prepared to mark any slight misuse of the machine into their digital screen.
Loyalty card scan. Done. Yellow drink scan. Done. The cookie tin scan required Lancelot to find the barcode on a strange section of the packaging, but he located it with ease and beamed it into the internal workings of the Diebold. Finally, the contact lenses scanned and were sent down the belt. Lancelot indicated that he'd like to pay with his credit card, and paused briefly - did the Diebold want you to insert the card or swipe the card? He couldn't remember.
The examiner marked something off on their pad.
"Shit," he thought.
Closing his eyes, he inserted his credit card into the chip reader. The examiner made another note. The receipt printed, he waited for it to finish, and ripped it off cleanly. He moved to the end, bagged his products and stepped away.
"Mr. Diageo?" one of the men dressed in black came up behind him. "Congratulations and welcome to consumerism."
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Two days later, Lancelot Diageo found himself standing in a line at the self checkout aisle at his local Shop More. He looked at the freshly burned barcode tattoo on his left wrist, and admired its design, its crispness, and its usefulness.
