Modern shopping is going to land me in the ‘big house’

“That’ll be $9.95.”

“Here’s a ten.”

“And here’s a nickel back. Have a nice day.”

In the long, long ago, this was known as making a purchase. The transaction transpired in much the same way no matter where you shopped.

It was how we bought and paid for everything from sweaters to auto parts to snow cones. The system was straightforward.

Things have changed, and unsurprisingly, not for the better.

I’m writing about this now because my other option is punching someone in the face and I do not want to go to jail.

I just arrived home from a mega-mart. I won’t say which one because nothing I write about it is likely to be flattering.

My cart contained a small wheel of expensive cheese, a bottle of very cheap wine, a birthday card for my granddaughter, Rosie, a pair of sunglasses that were supposed to give me the night vision of a panther but as it turns out didn’t, and a Hawaiian shirt with a floral pattern that would embarrass even Jimmy Buffett. 

“Phone number?” said the woman operating the cash register.

“What?”

“Can I get your phone number?” she repeated.

“Why?” I said. “Are you going to call me later to make sure I’m happy with my purchases?”

“It’s for our system,” she said. “In case you need to return anything.”

There were other customers behind me. I didn’t want to hold them up, so I gave the cashier my phone number. She entered the digits into her computerized register.

“You live on Grand?” she said.

“No,” I said.

“On Lincoln Avenue?” she said.

“No,” I said. “What else ya got?”

Finally, she pulled up the right Mike Taylor and guessed my correct address. She now knew enough about me to ring up my purchases; she scanned the first item, the godawful Hawaiian shirt. It rang up at $24.95.

“That’s wrong,” I said. “That shirt is supposed to be 30 percent off.”

The cashier sighed heavily. I was, obviously, a trouble maker. “Are you sure?” she said.

“Would anyone pay $24.95 for a shirt that ugly?” I asked.

The customers behind me could see the lay of the land and relocated to other lanes containing less problematic buyers.

Five minutes of annoyed phone calls and pages later, the cashier reluctantly keyed in the shirt for its sale price, though her demeanor left little doubt she thought I was trying to pull one over on her.

The other items scanned without incident, though I did have to provide my birth date in order to buy the six buck bottle of wine. This stranger (and possible serial killer; you never know) now knew my phone number, address and birthday.

I scanned my bank card. I’m sure the digital information being transferred at that moment included my shoe size, name of my first-born child and the number of times I use the bathroom each day.

“Do you want cash back?” the cashier said.

“No.”

Another sigh. “Then you have to tell it no,” she said, nodding to the card reader.

Using the provided stylus, I told it no.

It was raining as I exited the store. I stopped for gas and swiped my card at the pump. Before the pump would dispense gas, it wanted to know if my card was debit or credit; if I wanted a car wash; it wanted my zip code; it wanted to know if I required a receipt. I was soaked by the time the pump stopped playing 20 Questions and agreed to sell me some gasoline.

You know, I thought writing about this might help release a little pent up anger, but it’s not working. I think I’d better wait a while before shopping again. 

I would not do well in prison.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273