The cart zipped back across the store, arriving at a total of eight do-it-yourself registers with only a few customers. They chose the one with a lighted number seven atop a pole next to a bar-code scanner.
“Wonder why there aren’t more people over here,” said Coleman.
“I don’t care.” Serge’s head was down in the cart, unloading at battle speed. He swiped some chips over the glass plate that contained the laser. Nothing happened.
Coleman glanced around. “Who said that?”
“The
“This one’s fucked.” Serge refilled the cart and moved to lighted pole number eight.
The chips swiped. A cheerful sound dinged a single time from inside the counter. “Excellent,” said Serge. “This scanner works. The laser rang it up.”
Coleman looked at the screen. “I think it rang up the wrong price.”
Serge raised his head. “Dammit!” He turned around and looked toward a small, centrally located service stand where a woman was on duty to assist customers who were having trouble with the self in self-service.
Serge fleetly approached. “Yes, it rang up my chips wrong and I specifically checked the price on the shelf because I love sour cream and garlic, even though I know it’s just flavor dust made from ground animal parts that are otherwise the least popular.”
“I’ll need to send someone to check the shelf price . . .
“I just told you I checked the price. And they’re clear on the other side of the store. It’ll take forever.”
Jerry arrived and removed iPod earbuds. Serge heard faint Metallica.
She handed him the chips. “I need a price check.”
“Where do we sell these?”
“Somewhere far away.”
Jerry replaced the earbuds.
“No!” Serge’s arms shot out. “I’ll pay the extra. I can’t wait!
Jerry disappeared into the aisles.
Serge gave the woman a punched-in-the-stomach look. “He took my sour cream and garlic.”
Coleman had Little Debbie crumbs on the corners of his mouth when Serge returned to the service stand. “What happened to our sour cream and garlic?”
“No human will ever see that bag of chips again.”
“Where’d he go?”
Serge watched Jerry emerge from an aisle, scratch his head and disappear down another aisle. “Teenage wasteland . . . Forget the chips. Life’s too short.”
Serge scanned another item.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “It’s already in the bag.”
“I know.” Serge lifted the item and set it down again.
Serge removed it.
Coleman leaned toward the register’s screen. “How does it know what’s in the bag?”
“There’s a magic scale inside the counter.” Serge put the mixed nuts back in the bag.
Serge stuck his hand into the bag and pressed down.
Serge removed the nuts.
“Try scanning something else,” said Coleman.
Serge scanned something else.
“There’s an ‘ignore’ button on the touch screen,” said Coleman. “It’s if you don’t want to place the item in the bag.”
Serge pressed the button and placed the item in the bag.
Serge looked over at the service stand and a woman laughing on her cell phone.
“Screw it. I’m going on.” He swiped another item.
Serge ran over to the service stand. “Excuse me—”
The woman held up a finger. Into the phone: “You would not believe what I heard about Hector . . .”
“Hell with it.” He ran back and scanned something else.
“I’ll just pay.” Serge inserted a twenty.
“What’s the matter?”
Serge flattened the corners of the bill. “It keeps spitting my money out.” He stuck it in again.
“Serge, the lighted number eight on the pole is now flashing red.”
“Shit,” said Serge. “Heat’s coming down . . . but the woman’s off the phone!”
He ran over again as she hoisted a purse strap over her shoulder.
“We’re having a total collapse of your business model at number eight!”
“Sorry.” The woman started walking away. “I’m on break.”
“Is someone else going to replace you?”
“Oh, yeah. Linda.”
Serge looked around. “Where is she?”
“On break.”
Serge ran back as Coleman scanned a six-pack.
Serge covered his eyes. “Not the age-restricted item!”
