I used to think Winco was for losers. My mother shopped at Winco. Then I started shopping for her and found out I could save a lot of money shopping there. Now I shop at Winco weekly. Winco is an employee-owned store. Usually that means people who work there are friendly and helpful. However, it also apparently means that certain employee-owner control freaks are adamant about enforcing the fifteen-items-or-less rule at the self-scan checkout.I don't go grocery shopping to make trouble. On a sunny day, I tend to smile at everyone, whether they smile at me or not. Sunshine makes me bold. My default sunshine mode is friendly. However, on a sunny day, I don't feel inclined to back down from a confrontation when I think I'm right. If it had been raining today, I might have given in and wheeled my eighteen items to the regular checkout line. I would have slunk out without making eye contact with anyone, another browbeaten customer who will daydream about returning later with a gallon of gasoline and a Bic lighter.
Just kidddding. I'm not violent. But today I felt energized by the sunshine and ready to fight for my right to scan my own. Here is what happened.
The sign above the six self-scan stations says "Express Line: About 15 items." I usually don't bother to count my items. No other cashiers have bothered to count the items in my cart and enforce the fifteen-item limit. The only time the number of items is an issue is when a certain employee is manning the self-scan department. He's a small man, younger than me, I'm guessing, with sandy hair, a sparse mustache, and a stink-eye expression I know only too well from years of looking in mirrors.
When I wheeled my half-empty cart to an unoccupied self-scan station, he stood up straight in his red apron and sent me a look I've come to recognize. Uh-oh, here it comes, I thought. We've had this conversation before.
I waited. Wait for it. I picked up one of my items. Wait for it.... yes.
“This line is for fifteen items only,” the man in the red apron said. I smiled. Bring it on, I thought. Only one other station was occupied. If there had been a crowd or a line, I wouldn't have bothered revving up for this, but energized by sunshine and righteousness, I felt lively.
“I have eighteen items,” I said, lifting my chin at him.
“The sign says fifteen items."
“The sign says 'About' fifteen items,” I said.
He squinted his eyes at me and looked flustered. “About fifteen means fifteen,” he said.
“No, about fifteen means about fifteen,” I replied firmly. I waited. If he told me to leave, I would leave. However, he threw up his hands and surrendered.
“Do what you want,” he said and turned away, furious.
For a moment, I felt guilty, like, wow, should I back down? Should I not have argued? Am I a bad person? Then I thought, hey, I'm the customer here. I don't care if he owns the whole store. Nobody is being harmed by my scanning eighteen items instead of fifteen. And if the employee-owners really cared so much, they should change their damn sign to read "No more than 15 items! Carol, that means you!"
I efficiently (and I admit, somewhat triumphantly) scanned my eighteen items, but as I scanned, I realized I might have missed an opportunity to make someone feel better by letting them win a trivial argument. Instead I indulged my desire to stand up for my consumer right to pitch a fit.
I could have backed down. However, would that have been better? He may have felt triumphant for a while at winning the argument, but sooner or later, an insidious guilt may have crept into his mind, guilt over providing bad customer service. Guilt might have ruined the rest of his day. Thus, I saved him from a day ruined by guilt. Right.
Somehow, though, I sense that he is not likely a guy who would chew up his insides with guilt. If he's like me, he probably turned that moment of defeated frustration into a full day of passive aggressive resentment. Us control freaks get a lot of mileage out of being angry.
Either way, no matter what I did, odds are, he would have been angry, because he's likely unhappy with the fact that his life (and all the people in it) are out of his control. No matter what he does, customers won't behave. Cash machines balk. Nothing I do or don't do will change his outlook if he is as unhappy as I am guessing. He's probably a frustrated artist. Maybe his mother is dying of dementia in a nursing home. Whatever it is, it's not my problem. I didn't cause it, I can't control it, and I can't cure it. He will have to find his own way through the swampy customer service cesspool.
I can wish him well and bless his journey. Next time I see him manning the self-scan checkout, I will attempt to avoid making his life hellish if I can. I might even split my groceries into two batches, no more than fifteen items each. But I won't stop scanning my own groceries.
