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The Cooperative Advantage

To most, checkers, or cashiers if we’re using street slang, are robots devoid of any situational awareness outside of the proverbial cage that extends just as far as a hand must reach to grab cash or demonstrate proper chip-inserting technique. Their minds are vacant save for three or so questions pre-programmed with each model of checker (four if it’s a manager model) Any variation of questions such as “how are you?,” “are you a member?,” and “would you like any bags today?,” are regarded with the same amount of attention as the Windows log-in screen advertising an exotic locale that nobody can actually afford to travel to.

As with most robots, checkers get a bad rap for insentience. Most would be surprised to find that there is water at the bottom of a checker’s well of self-expression. Only for most checkers that well is sealed tight by a serial number that looks strikingly similar to their human name and an opaque uniform sporting the regalia of their manufacturer. Almost nobody becomes a checker out of undying love for whichever link of the chain the wills of fate decided to stick them in. Anyone who can breathe and grab and let go of items at will has already satisfied the requirements for becoming a full-time scrap of an assembly line.

The eternal question raised by big box recruiting managers with receding hairlines everywhere is how they can make their robots think of themselves distinctively without jeopardizing the productivity only a robot can give. While there is a solution to that question, a quick Google search tells me they’re still working on the AI for it. What few people know is that there is another solution, albeit a little more provisional one. Of course, the solution is to allow, or dare I say encourage, self-expression. Let employees wear clothes within the confines of a dress code. Don’t force them to cover up the tattoos they spent hundreds of student loan dollars to get.

While self-expression should be encouraged, even doing the bare minimum of not disallowing it might result in some robots giving a genuine a smile here and there. If the checker didn’t come with the “smile” program out of the box, then it might seem like a bug in the system. No need to worry, advancements in machine learning have led to this and other such developments. Some are still at odds as to whether they should embrace the contentment of their now-sentient allies or fear that they may start acting on their own volition will get and begin asking for a raise.

I’m thankful to be one of those robots whose smiles are genuine. I work at a sustainable, community-driven co-op where self-expression is indeed encouraged. To a lot of the clientele, the robots who toil about each day make the place seem like a rather progressive work environment. The dress code calls for close-toed shoes and the obvious parts of your body being covered. Besides the necessity of a small apron, the robots have the opportunity of utilizing their wardrobe further than the regular two days off they are allotted. Many even adorn pins and patches in support of their real-world views and hobbies. Then again when you consider the work environment of most large retailers, even casual Fridays can make a place seem cutting-edge. Maybe getting to bust out the Quicksilver hoodie that still fits from high school at will is too broad a metric for breaking new ground.

Rest assured we robots don’t let our clothing privileges completely fog our programmed purpose. Over one hundred times a day we will still ask customers how they are, if they are a member, and if they would like bags. This results in a surprising bout of role-reversal where customers predict our routine and even more predictably answer the questions before they’re even asked. However, little do their feeble minds know we’ve been granted the opportunity to step outside the bounds of our programming and speak with a little more depth.

Sometimes we want to know why someone’s day is particularly well. Other times we will ask where a customer just flew in from. Sometimes as I bag their groceries the customer will look at me in awe and say something to the extent of “Now this is why I let the professionals handle it.” Not wanting to put my college degree to waste, I tell them about the two-week mandatory bagging boot camp I attended where I was able to hone my skills. My impersonal eyes juxtapose theirs as each pair locks on to one another and I delineate that at the end of the boot camp I learned less about bagging and more about myself. They don’t seek any accountability on my story; robots aren’t programmed to lie.

Often a customer will ask if we have tried a product in order to get an opinion that leans as close to objective as a machine can get. As much as we love to be people-pleasers and say yes, sometimes there is an administrator override and we will not give our seal of approval on the product. A machine is nothing if it can’t simplify an otherwise complex task.

So instead of telling Karen that whoever thought cheese crackers should be made from cauliflower has a special place waiting for them in Hell, I tell her that I tried and did not like those crackers. I also neglect to tell her they taste like dog food, but that’s mostly because I’m not programmed to explain why I know what dog food tastes like. At the end of the day I will always take their payment and, sometimes through gritted teeth, tell them to have a good day. In a more corporate environment, a checker would need to endorse most products that their store carries. I’m thankful that when I’m at work I can spare the populace from the Purina Cauliflower Chowder without being reprimanded.

Not everything is said and done through gritted teeth where I work. Often a customer will see through my robotic façade and treat me with humanity. I’m not speaking simply of replying with “good, how are you?” when greeted, or being told what a wonderful, sunny day it is outside as if I can’t already see God taunting me from every window in the store. I’m speaking of customers with whom I can share personal relationships with. Even the worst of days can take a turn for the best when Mr. Fisher comes through my line. Just hearing his New York accent as he makes his rounds speaking to different employees in the store always brings a modicum of peace and order. When he comes through my line our conversations don’t tend to amount to more than him asking how my car is running, reminding me of how much gas mileage it can get, and explaining every step of the process he’s going to take to prepare the same lamb chop he gets every night. Or Walking Larry, who always comes in late at night with his large backpack and bucket hat. Nobody knows all of where he walks during his day, just that the co-op somehow fits into his late-night itinerary. He runs his own therapy practice and gives me his office’s old issues of Time and The New Yorker as a means of recycling them. In between his offerings we always find some time to catch up. On an especially hectic night I can look forward to his semi-consistent appearance to nail some organization into the coffin of chaos. These people and a handful of others are the backbone that can keep one steady throughout the onslaught of hellos and how are yous.

What these customers all have in common is that they all make up the extremely small group of people who treat their regular trip to the grocery store as an exchange of conversance. Occasionally, however, a new face will take the same amount of interest in me as these regulars. It always catches me off guard, as me and most in my position only expect to be treated with the amount of compassion society has deemed the bare minimum for people to traverse one thirty second engagement. On one of those especially hectic days where respite was but a legend said to exist on the other side of the sea of customers, one of these new faces made her way through my line. This new face’s name was Michele.

I asked Michele how she was, and believe me when I tell you, she was good. That’s an understatement. She was on top of hers and everyone else’s world. Her smile was more natural than all the food we carry in the store. Michele was about as exuberant as a middle-aged woman can get and, after seeing the cat shirt I was wearing, was bracing herself to relinquish that exuberance upon me.

On the last day of my work week, I wear any one of several cat shirts I own for good luck. I love them, the customers love them, and altogether they’re a good ice breaker and a way to keep everyone happy. Like clockwork, Michele looked in awe at the enormous yellow eyes of the black cat on my shirt. She asked if it was supposed to look like my cat. I told her she was right on the nose, and that it looked exactly like my cat. She let out an “aww” and, as if she was the only one who couldn’t smell the impatience fuming from the line forming behind her, asked what my cats name is. I mentally shifted the line of people out of my peripheral and smiled at her as I told her my cat’s name is Yuki.

“Yuki? What a beautiful name! How did she get that?” Like a child presenting in front of class, I told her that Yuki means snow in Japanese, and that she’s a tuxedo cat with a white stomach, feet, and mustache. She asked how old she is, to which I said four and a half, but that I got her when she was six weeks old. This perpetuated a story about her senior cat, who she explained she found as a stray. “He’s all black and he was feral when we found him. We just had to bring him home, but it took a LONG TIME for him to get comfortable enough to touch him any more than two seconds. Now he’ll just flop on his back when he wants you to scratch his tummy! He won’t even stop playing until you tire him out. Ever since the day we found him he’s always just been an older cat with the heart of a kitten.” By this time, I had most of her groceries scanned and the line of customers were divided; some were seeking less stagnant lines to go to, and others were listening as eagerly as I was. Michele’s bubbly personality had made its way through each of us.

I realized I still had a job and that as much as I hated to, I would have to prod away the cat subject. So, like any other customer, I asked what she was up to that day. The same glow tinted her eyes and the same smile splashed across her face. “Well, I’m going to the Seattle Weaver’s Guild!” I told her I thought that sounds like fun, but that was mostly just because a Weaver’s Guild sounded like a guild someone who wasn’t cut-out for combat in an online game would make.

I admitted that I didn’t actually know what that was, and she happily explained that it was just a group of people who meet semi-frequently to share the creations they weave. “Once a year the Guild holds a pop-up market on Capitol Hill to sell what they weave. It’s a lot like a flea market. There’s a lady there who weaves home-made cat toys with high quality catnip. She sells them for three dollars apiece and I go to buy some for my cat and all my friends’ and family’s cats!”

Even if I didn’t buy anything, just the idea of telling my friends I spent a day going to something called a Weaver’s Guild with a straight face was enough for me to want to check it out. I asked how long they normally stayed open for and she said it was that day and the next. “Perfect,” I told her. “I don’t get off until late tonight, but tomorrow is my weekend and I’m sure Yuki would love some new toys.” Michele’s smile slowly flatlined, and she told me that they’re usually sold out after the first day. Apparently someone was monopolizing the hand-woven cat toy market and I was just getting the memo. I told her that it was fine and I would go the next day regardless and just enjoy checking everything out. We finally reached the end of the transaction.

After showing her how to properly slide her card and expressing gratitude that she gave an older cat a good home, her receipt finally saw the light of day. Michele took her receipt and focused her vision on my name tag, squinting like she was trying to decipher an archaic hieroglyph. “Jess” she read aloud. “Well, it was VERY nice to meet you Jess! I hope you enjoy the rest of your day!”

After Michele left her elation seemed to captivate what time remained in the workday. The day itself had become a wall of bliss that no amount of omissive customers could penetrate. I never imagined the whims of a cat-lady would be that infectious, but Michele left such an impression on me and everyone in the vicinity that, for the first time in a long time, it felt as nice of a day inside the store as it was outside. The day waned on and I went on my last fifteen-minute break. It had gone from bad to excellent thus far, but within the confines of the breakroom I buried myself in my phone to try to stop my body from reminding me how tired it was. Thankfully two more hours never seem like too much more when you’re at the tail end of the broad scheme of things.

My break went as fast as it came, and I made my way back to the front end. Between Michele’s cat tales and the never-ending influx of customers I couldn’t help but feel that I just experienced the fastest six hours in my life. This made me think that even robots can experience one partition of time differently from another. I walked up to my manager to see where they would have me placed, and like a clock striking in the same exact fashion as before Michele comes walking back in.

Two scenarios instantly surface in my mind. Either she forgot something earlier or she just put a piece of bread around her cat’s head and must notify the appropriate parties. She sees me and says “Jess, that was your name, right?” She hands me a paper bag and I realize I was wrong on both accounts. Scrawled across the bag in black marker was “Kitty toys from Seattle Weaver’s Guild! – Michele.” I read each word in her jovial voice as I accepted the bag. “I’m so glad I caught you still at work! If Yuki is like every other cat, she’s REALLY going to love these!”

It likely made her day to give those to me as much as it made mine to get them. I thanked her, and without a second thought I thanked her again. The gratitude I gave her likely didn’t do me any favors in expressing how wonderful that truly felt. I was a bottle ready to burst with emotion. Earlier that day I had seemingly just met another customer who was as into her cat as I was into mine. At a certain point in the conversation I had made the transition from playing along to being fully engaged. That was the point in which I looked forward to her being one of my regular customers who would bring some stability to the workday every once in a while. I initially thought she was reciting my name on my tag like those customers who make you think you’ve provided such great service that they’ll ask your manager to give you a commendation without knowing that such a thing doesn’t actually exist. Not a single brain cell had fired off telling me that Michele would regard me with any amount of significance beyond run-of-the-mill cat stories and mutually holding up a line of people who wanted to go home. Michele saw that I needed to get back to work, so we traded farewells and she took her leave.

People like Michele bring life to the menial days of those who are just trying to make a living. There will still be the vast majority of people who treat cashiers like a robot whose batteries are perpetually running low. Some people still neglect to even do that. But for every long eight hour shift full of customers who make it their ambition to convince you that your job will only linger on as a by-product of inefficient automation, there are people like Michele who will take their own time to linger and remind you that’s the furthest thing from the truth. Michele has been in the store a few times since, and every time I see her my phone is already out suffocating her in pictures of Yuki playing with the toys she got her. It goes without saying that it stirs up a bit of impatience with the customers in line, but I can’t really say I blame them. They’re just human, after all.







I think it was a hit




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