Written By: Tara Tandlich
Few retail experiences are more disconcerting than having your money held hostage by a self check out machine, (Robot Cashier), only to be told by the attendant (Robot Wrangler) that you didn’t pay. All to the tune of Barry Manilow’s Copacabana.
Here’s what happened:
On a recent Saturday afternoon I went food shopping at Un-Fairway on the Upper West Side. That’s what I call Fairway Market, which isn’t even Fairway anymore. It’s Stop ’n Shop. They’ve gutted Fairway’s soul but kept their name. Not unlike driving a Volkswagon bug with a Rolls Royce front. I could launch into a rant about how the store, like a bad ex-boyfriend, has changed for the worse, but like most awful relationships, it’s best to move on.
So. That Saturday, everything was going well.
Until it wasn’t.
Moments before, I stood at the Robot Cashier. The routine was the same: Scan. Place item in my cart. Scan. Place item in my cart. Aside from a few glitches, the process went quickly.
Then, the machine stopped working. I shop at Un-Fairway every week and minor tech issues always occur. Except that Saturday, the machine refused to sashay back into service. Instead, the bot stood in front of me, like a retail-infused, sickly, low rent R2D2. Messages flashed on the screen: Please Wait For Assistance and the dreaded: Call for Service.
The Robot Wrangler tapped the screen and scanned a card. No improvement. The Robot Wrangler unlocked the gullet of the beast, wiggled something and closed the door. Still nothing. She tapped on the screen again, then went to the main terminal. She shook her head. I expected words of comfort. Instead, she frowned.
“It says you didn’t put in any money.”
SERIOUSLY?
What did she think I’d been doing? Considering the barter system while contemplating Plato’s Cave Allegory? (Which, upon further thought, is eerily/oddly appropriate).
“I DID put in money. $100 and twenty six cents. And I’d like my change.”
She nodded. I asked what was happening next. She nodded again. Paucity of language works great for picture books, modern dance and vows of silence.
In retail? Not so much.
I tried a different approach. “Is someone else coming?”
Another nod.
Did she have selective mutism? Or, was she like a character in the classic middle grade novel, The Phantom Tollbooth? In the book, there’s a city called Dictionopolis, the kingdom of words. Once a week there’s a Word Market, which sells edible words and also edible, individual letters that one may form into words. Certain letters, like “A” are juicy and satisfying. Others, less seldom-used, like “X”, are dry-tasting. Could the Robot Wrangler be saving all the good letters for herself? Is that why she stopped speaking? No idea.
Soon, another language-challenged (Phantom Tollbooth groupie?) Robot Wrangler lumbered over, approached the bot, scowled, yanked open the door, and performed a bevy of rapid-fire, tech-infused ablutions.
During that time, I thought back to my own experience as a cashier. For eight years, on Saturdays, I worked at the now closed, “Always Love” Health and Beauty Aids store on West 72nd Street. I believe customers valued the human interaction. Of course, sometimes there were misunderstandings. For example, certain patrons spoke so rapidly they were hard to understand, like one lady who I thought asked for “Dog chocolate.” Turns out what she really wanted was dark chocolate.
A slam of the machine door brought me back. I looked up. The screen read, Calibration Sensor Failure.
Is it just me, or does that sound like an automotive issue, or maybe a problem with a Geiger counter?
Seconds later, my receipt emerged, along with my money. I then received my change and a “Thank you.”
Eight letters. Practically a monologue.
Clutching my money, purchases and poor man’s pseudo-apology, I wheeled my cart out of the store.
The lesson in all of this is: technology works great. Until it doesn’t. Going forward, when miracles of engineering screech to a halt, it’s probably best not to expect too much from the human tasked (burdened) with monitoring the machine. Instead, word-weary Robot Wranglers should pass out fortune cookies filled with messages of solace or humor. At least that way customers would have something to munch on while waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting.
