Unexpected Item

The machine said it four times. Unexpected item in the bagging area. The item, each time, was my hand. Not a bag, not a watermelon, not something ambiguous, my hand, which I was using to shift the canvas bag two inches so the next thing could scan. Four times.

Simone was supposed to be helping. She was standing close enough to help. Instead she put one hand on the machine housing for support and laughed until her eyes closed. I watched this happen. I said 'you could press the button.' She said, and I am quoting directly, 'I cannot press anything right now.' Extremely fair. I also could not press anything, by that point. The people behind us in line were very patient or very entertained, I couldn't tell which.

The machine: still waiting. Us: completely useless.

We made it out. I have the receipt. It does not reflect the full experience. There is a line for every item I scanned and no line for the four minutes of negotiating with a sensor that had decided I was contraband. I thought about the paper number, the way I always land on something domestic when I'm trying to ground a stupid moment, and then Simone gestured at the receipt like she was presenting closing arguments, and I stopped thinking about anything useful.

We made it out. The receipt is evidence of nothing except that I paid eventually.

Fall is doing its thing. The weaving class is still happening on Thursdays. The prints are still leaning against the kitchen wall, honest and unhurried. And apparently I now have a story about a self-checkout machine that I will tell for longer than the incident deserves. Some days are like that. The receipt is on the kitchen table. Gerald is fine.