I. Rite of Entry
The self‑checkout greets me
with the solemn glow
of a minor shrine.
A touchscreen altar
awaiting my offerings —
barcodes,
intentions,
the performance
of competence.
I approach
with the calm precision
of someone determined
to appear technologically fluent.
II. First Accusation
The scanner beeps –
a thin, accusatory trumpet
announcing my presence
to the congregation of machines.
Then the voice descends,
sharp as a reprimand
from an unseen priest:
“Unexpected item
in the bagging area.”
Not a warning.
A judgment.
A public note
on the fragility
of my character.
III. The Weight of the Lime
I place a single lime
on the sacred scale.
The machine hesitates,
unable to believe
in something so light,
so green,
so unprofitable.
It demands proof
of its existence.
I, momentarily doubting
my own reality,
lift the lime again
as if to reassure us both
that matter still matters.
IV. Waiting for the High Priest
The screen turns red,
a digital excommunication.
I stand exposed,
a supplicant
awaiting absolution.
From the distance
approaches the High Priest
of Override:
a bored teenager
with a lanyard
and the power
to restore my innocence
with a single tap.
He does not look at me.
He does not need to.
He knows my type.
V. The Performance of Honesty
I resume the ritual
with exaggerated clarity,
lifting each item
like a relic,
ensuring the cameras above
witness my devotion
to honesty.
My hands move
with ceremonial slowness –
a choreography
designed to prove
that I am not
a thief,
nor an idiot,
but a citizen
worthy of smooth transaction.
VI. Absolution
When the final beep sounds,
the machine softens,
granting me passage
with a printed blessing:
“Thank you
for shopping with us.”
I leave the altar
unchanged,
yet faintly polished –
a person who has survived
another small trial
of the modern self.