Every time I use the self-checkout, somehow with consistent unfortunate luck, the person in front of me has either never used self-checkout, touchscreens, or money before. The elderly plop of cottage cheese trembling before me is mired in a 10-minute struggle sesh, utterly confounded as they stare into the abyss. To the passerby, this may seem like a jabbering old fool struggling to keep pace with modern technology, but this is a mere mortal drowning in inevitable irrelevancy, succumbing to the death grip of time’s passage.
“YOUNG MAN, WHERE DO I PUT MY COUPONS?? I DON'T MEAN TO YELL, I JUST HAVE TROUBLE CONTROLLING THE VOLUME OF MY VOICE!! DO I WRITE A CHECK??”
I should be sympathetic, as the ruthless progression of time inevitably grinds us all into dust, but I’m holding in a piss and I want to get home before NFL Sunday Kickoff. With my arms folded across my chest and a formidable resting bitch face settling into a non-verbal expression of displeasure, hopefully, this is enough of a hint for this feeble old man to move his ass. He remains blissfully unaware of the steadily growing line of impatient customers behind him as he struggles to win a debate against a cashier about the validity of expired coupons.
Several grueling minutes later, I have finally made my way through what was supposed to be the express line, and I see one of those joint Starbucks appendages. After the struggle sesh I had the misfortune of witnessing, I walk in, and the barista asks what I want. “Based on the week I’ve had, it truly doesn’t even matter,” I growl with a flat affect, and she gave me some fucked up concoction of what appears to be an iced matcha, frappuccino, and a strawberry açaí bev. It was $9.
Not sure if she met the moment perfectly through bullying, or if this is a mercy kill.
The barista also notifies me that if I sign up for the Official Starbucks Newsletter, this wretched Frankenbev will be 15% off. That sounds splendid, so I ask her to flip the iPad around, but for whatever reason, she insists that she can type it in. I consider myself among the all-time great feminists—and I know her delicate hands have been hard at work all day. I also know for a fact that I still use my high school email, I’ve been too lazy to get a new personal email, and it is absolutely embarrassing. I keep insisting that I enter it on my own, but this lady will not budge.
Starbucks Barista: “It’s fine. I can enter it. Just give me your email.”
Me: “It’s actually in Braille…”
Next person in line: “Dude, what’s wrong? Do you have a weird email? Is it an AOL?”
Me: “No! I’m not a serial killer…”
Next person in line: “Nah, you right… You seem like a Hotmail kinda dude…”
Me: “No!”
Next person in line: “Then give her your email!”
Starbucks Barista: “Can I please get your email?”
Me: “O-S…”
Starbucks Barista: “Ok…”
Me: “A-M…”
Starbucks Barista: “Mhmm…”
Me: “A-B-I-N-T…”
Starbucks Barista: “Yup…”
Me: “B-A…”
Starbucks Barista: “Got it…”
Me: “G-G-N…”
Starbucks Barista: “…at?”
Me: “MSN.net…”
Starbucks Barista: “OsamaBinTBaggn@msn.net?”
Me: “Yeah…”
Starbucks Barista: “Cool! Sounds good. Enjoy your beverage.”
She flips the iPad around for me to pay—so she has no problem doing that now—and I reach for my phone to tap. My screen starts to glitch out, and my Apple Wallet is malfunctioning. My AmEx won’t work, and neither will my debit. My face screen isn’t reading my face, and for some reason, I’m fumbling to enter my passcode. This entire transaction is in shambles. I can sense the growing frustration of the people behind me, and their quiet judgment coalesces into a cloud of scorn that hangs over my embarrassing display of incompetence. In this moment, I am truly cooked.
“Ayo, unc! Hurry up. You chopped with those ankle socks. Don’t you know how to tap?”
Is this karmic retribution or the merciless continuity of the circle of life?
"I DON'T MEAN TO YELL, I JUST HAVE TROUBLE CONTROLLING THE VOLUME OF MY VOICE!!"
You and every 21st century film and TV fictional character, lady.
Wow, that meme is spot on for me.