I Should’ve Known

All I needed was groceries. Nothing fancy—just a few things. I even promised myself that I would adhere to the list this time.

I had a list once before. It didn’t go well.

It all sounded simple, which, thinking back, probably should’ve set off some kind of alarm.

Inside, I grabbed a cart and did the usual routine. I walked up and down the aisles, putting things in, taking some out, and second-guessing my actions. Nothing unusual.

At least, nothing unusual at first.

Except the cart.

It had a mind of its own. Not in an obvious way. It didn’t squeak or veer off dramatically. It just… disagreed. Quietly.

There was a little pushback from the cart, especially when I reached for items I knew I probably shouldn’t have. Chips? The cart seemed to steer away just enough that I had to reach farther than necessary. Ice cream? Suddenly felt like too much work to bend down and grab.

I stood there for a second, holding the freezer door open longer than I should have.

It felt like I was being judged.

Perhaps the wheels were malfunctioning, or perhaps I was more fatigued than I had anticipated.

I switched hands.

Same result.

I tried pushing from the side.

Still the same.

After a while, it stopped feeling like a coincidence.

I tested it.

Reached for soda.

The cart rolled back slightly.

Not a lot. Just enough.

I let go.

The cart stopped moving.

I picked something reasonable instead.

The cart stayed still.

That felt… cooperative.

I started to wonder if my cart and my doctor had some kind of secret deal.

It wouldn’t have been the strangest thing that had happened to me.

By the time I finished, I didn’t feel proud, exactly, but at least I hadn’t made things worse. The cart rolled smoothly again, almost as if it approved.

Which, yeah, is weird.

At the checkout, this guy waved me over.

“Self-checkout’s open.”

“Oh, uh, I don’t use those,” I said.

I felt like that was clear enough.

He didn’t even look at me. Just waved the next person forward.

Guess my vote didn’t count.

So, I went over.

It felt like breaking a rule I’d made for myself.

The cart didn’t resist.

That probably should’ve meant something.

I started scanning.

First item. Beep.

That felt manageable.

Second item.

Nothing.

I paused.

Looked at it.

Tried again.

Still nothing.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

The machine didn’t respond, which felt unnecessary given the circumstances.

I looked around briefly, just to see if anyone else was having the same problem.

They weren’t.

Everyone else seemed… confident.

That didn’t help.

I tried again. Beep. Then another. Beep.

That seemed promising, so I kept going.

A rhythm started to form.

Scan. Beep. Move on.

That part made sense.

Halfway through, something felt off.

I couldn’t place it at first.

Then I saw it.

The total wasn’t moving.

It just stayed at zero.

Which, I’ll admit, I didn’t question right away.

Zero is still a number.

It just doesn’t ask much of you.

I looked around. No one was saying anything. The man who sent me over had already moved on.

That felt like confirmation.

Or at least not a warning.

Why would I doubt the screen?

That’s what we look at for everything now. If it says zero… It’s zero.

That’s the system.

So I kept going.

Scan. Beep. Bag.

Scan. Beep. Bag.

I even started organizing the bags better than usual.

If I were doing this right, I might as well do all of it right.

At some point, it started to feel like I knew what I was doing.

Like I had figured something out that other people hadn’t quite noticed yet.

It felt as though I had discovered a solution.

A quiet one.

I packed everything up and checked the total again.

Still zero.

No hesitation. No correction.

Just… certainty.

“Okay,” I said.

That seemed final.

I waited a second longer than necessary.

Nothing changed.

So I left.

Which felt reasonable at the time.

I didn’t get far.

“Sir.”

I kept walking for a step or two.

Then stopped.

Turned.

The same man was there, holding my receipt like it meant something different now.

“That’s not right,” he said.

“What’s not right?” I asked.

“The total.”

“Zero is still a number,” I said. “It’s just… lower than expected.”

He looked at me.

Not angry. Just… tired.

Like this wasn’t new, but I was.

“You didn’t think to ask someone?”

“I did,” I said.

“You did?”

“No,” I said. “But I thought about it.”

That felt honest.

He paused.

Longer than before.

“Do you know how self-checkout works?”

“Not really,” I said. “That’s why I said I don’t use it.”

“And yet,” he said.

“And yet,” I said.

I showed him the receipt.

“I scanned everything,” I said. “That’s significant.”

He looked at it.

“It does,” he said. “It counts as step one.”

“That feels like there should be more steps,” I said.

I glanced back at the screen.

Still zero.

Still confident about it.

Like it wasn’t going to change its mind just because we were talking about it.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “What makes these things less real just because that screen says zero?”

He blinked.

“They’re not less real,” he said. “They’re just not paid for.”

“That feels like a small difference,” I said.

“It’s not,” he said.

We stood there for a second.

I, with groceries that were apparently not mine.

He, with proof of it.

“So what happens now?” I asked.

He let out a breath.

“Now you pay.”

That made sense.

Pause.

“That seems fair,” I said.

I didn’t argue.

As I turned back, the cart resisted again.

Just enough to alert me.

Enough for me to notice.

But not enough for me to stop.

“I should’ve known,” I said.

This time, it didn’t move at all.

Like it had already done everything it was going to do. Months later, I enter the grocery store. I fill my cart. I wait for the cashier to be available. I swerve my cart over to be checked out.

I still don’t use self-checkout.