The whole thing is thwarted, really: I don’t want to do it, and I know she doesn’t want to do it. So who’s doing it? And how did it end up like this?
Bags.
What a fabulous moment in human history: the handful of years between 2015 and 2020 when human beings slowly, at times begrudgingly, changed their habits for the good of the planet. I think we can all remember the countless times we arrived at the supermarket, instantly realising that we’ve forgotten to bring our reusable bags, again. The bitter chagrin of being forced, yet again, to purchase reusable bags that we don’t need, stockpiling them sorrowfully in some deep cupboard. Or the heroic attempt to hold in our very hands the 20 items we ended up buying after stopping in to pick up milk. But we learned, we changed, we positively evolved as a species. The habit was formed — store them in the car, or tuck one in your handbag or your back pocket. Magic.
Then, as mundane as it is to mention these days — Covid hit. Our essential supermarket workers were, quite rightfully, spared the risk of handling our home-brought bags during Levels 4, 3, and even 2. We dutifully packed our own bags with that warm sense of solidarity, one of the few pleasant by-products of the pandemic: the feeling that we’re all in this together, willing to put in the extra effort for the sake our fellow human beings.
Smash-cut to the here and now: we find ourselves in this dubious state of limbo. We are officially at Alert Level 1, meaning all normal activities can resume, but the official status of bag-packing seems not to have reset itself.
Yes, I am lazy and would absolutely love someone else to do this for me, but I swear that’s not the reason I feel the need to write so extensively about a seemingly mundane topic! To me it is a glaring example of corporations cashing in on opportunity, with no regard to the societal implications. There no longer is a staff member whose job it is to pack bags: that’s hundreds of jobs gone and a fat wad of cash in someone’s back pocket. It’s transparent as all hell and nobody can do a thing about it.
It is a cold, calculating and heartless move on the part of large corporations for a plethora of reasons, the most trivial of which is the complete farce that now ensues every time I load shopping on the conveyor belt.
As soon as the first item is scanned the race is on: chat nicely to the checkout attendant, really acknowledge them as a person, as per your community ideals; get your rag-tag team of reusable bags out, no not that one the handle’s broken; quickly place items in bags, do eggs go first or last? That bag of chips can wait till the end, I think vegetables go together? Okay. She’s asking you if you have a loyalty card, do I have a loyalty card? Yes the weather’s been terrible. Scan said card as the next customer’s items come creeping indignantly up the conveyor-belt — you’re running out of time! How much does it come to? Did I get that discount? Oh shit, I’ve run out of bags. Lift, heave, dump bags into trolley, tuck toilet paper and chips under arm (you’ll eat them in the car) aaand you’re done.
The checkout attendant asks you, politely, if you’d like you’re receipt.
It’s a purely banal question, no ulterior motives, no malice. But she seems to be suggesting, sarcastically, that a receipt is just what you need right now, after finishing 5 minutes of a now obsolete bag-packer’s shift.
You accept warmly. You thank her, genuinely, but with a harrowing look in your eyes as you realise — you’ve just been shadow-worked.
