Give Self-Checkout Lanes the Boot!

Lately there's been a lot of talk about supermarkets of self-checkout lanes. Me, I'm all for losing them. I cannot physically use a check-your-own line. Why? Read on but please don't judge me.

Some years ago, my son, who was about 11 at the time, told me he had outgrown his old winter boots and needed a new pair. I added that to my mental Wal-Mart list and headed to the store in Uniondale, which was the closest one back then. I proceeded to fill my cart with a variety of items, then headed to the Men's Shoe Department.

I couldn't find the combat boots he had requested, as apparently nobody buys boots in season, although there was a wide variety of swim trunks for sale. Instead I found a rather hideous-looking pair of pseudo-camouflage waterproof boots for $17. Beggars can't be choosers; the pickings were slim so I tossed them in the cart.

I was in about 26 different carpools in those days and I was running late. I got up to the registers and was dismayed to find that only a few registers were open and there were long lines that were moving abysmally slow. I started to panic; how would I get out of there on time with my purchases and still pick up the kids? I pondered just leaving everything behind and coming back another time but with a snowstorm predicted I was worried I wouldn't be able to find him winter boots until July.

Suddenly, like a mirage, the self-checkout lanes beckoned. I don't recall for sure but I think that the cashier manning (womaning?) them may have summoned me over. A bullhorn and neon lights may have been involved but my recollection is dim. I immediately moved over and looked at the instructions. Heck, the cashier was standing right there to help, so I decided to take the plunge. What could go wrong?

At first it was almost fun. Scan, swipe, put the item in the bag. The recorded voice told me what to do. And repeat. I got this! My confidence grew as the bags piled up. I picked up the offensive boots and swiped them. Nothing. Huh? I swiped them again. Still nothing. No beep, no price, nothing. I began to sweat a little. Just then, Attila the Cashier with the five-inch-long curved fingernails looked over. "Put the item in the bag," she instructed me. "But...but..." I began. "Put the item in the bag!" she commanded.

At this point panic was truly mounting. "They didn't scan...I haven't paid for them..." I stammered. "PUT THE ITEM IN THE BAG." Attila was getting testy now and the line behind me was growing. "I didn't PAY for them!" I said. "PUT. THE. ITEM. IN. THE. BAG. MA'AM. NOW!"

What would you do? I put the item in the bag. I finished my order while Attila glowered at me from her little perch. I took the receipt from the machine with shaking hands, dreading what was coming next. Police? Security guards? No. The cute little old man by the door who checks the receipts and then lets you leave. I went over to him. "Listen, there's been a mistake," I began, receipt in hand. Just then he was summoned over by a manager. "You-all have a nice day!" he said and shooed me out the door. Suddenly I was outside, with the purloined boots in the bag. I-all had just become a criminal!

I got into my car and drove home slowly, scanning the rearview mirror constantly for the cops that I knew would be after me in droves. I pictured my mugshot in Newsday, the embarrassment and shame it would cause my family. But no. I made it home without any squad cars hot in pursuit.

The boots fit. He thought they were cool. When I confessed how I had acquired them, my family couldn't believe it. I thought maybe I should go back and try and straighten things out but I was scared. Instead, I called and spoke to the manager and told her what had happened. She laughed and thanked me for my honesty and told me not to worry about it. Worry about it? I haven't gone near a self-checkout in almost 10 years and I relive my crime every time I see one of those machines.

The boots lasted many a season. They were lovingly referred to in my house as "the boots that Mommy stole." When my son finally outgrew them, my husband contemplated trying them on. "NO!" I screamed. "I want them out of my house!" And I donated them to the poor.

Thus began (and ended) my life of petty crime. So, if and when supermarkets do away with the self-checkout lane, I for one will be relieved.