InformationWeek

was in a store the other day that used to be the kind of business that was called a grocery store. It had been a couple of years since I last patronized this particular retail outlet, and as I walked toward it through the parking lot, I could tell it had recently undergone extensive renovations. I don't know what it's called now--megastore, superstore, ýberstore, galactostore, terastore--but "grocery" would tell only a small part of the story. It was actually more like a mall or an old-fashioned department store under a Rhode-Island-size roof--you could buy insurance or wireless phones, leave the kids at day care, have your taxes prepared, do some banking, have a suit cleaned and pressed, use a concierge service, sign up for lawn care, pick up tires for the car, have a dress or suit tailored, get a haircut or a facial or a manicure, or pop into the photography studio for some family portraits.

All I wanted was some vegetables and some bread, so I didn't use the occasion to pulverize my to-do list. And, being a guy who tries to believe that the world changes all the time, I could accept that lots of new business approaches were being tested under this roof. Heck, if gas stations can become convenience stores selling fresh, custom-made sandwiches, why can't grocery stores remake themselves, too?

At the same time, I've heard from various credible places that the largest seller of groceries in the United States is Wal-Mart, so why shouldn't grocery stores have the freedom to reverse-integrate and become department stores? I could accept all that. But I wasn't prepared for what awaited me as I hustled to the checkout area, an expanse so vast that I couldn't see to its ends due to the curvature of the earth. As I got into Checkout Line No. 6,458 with only a few shoppers ahead of me, I looked to my left and right and saw many other checkout lines with their "open for business" lights on but no customers waiting. So I backed out and started over there, but something wasn't right. I hesitated and a cerebral-cortex survival mechanism kicked in and, in a panic, I jolted back toward my original line because heaven forbid I should lose my place. Safely back in line, I looked again over at those empty lanes--I'm telling you, I saw them with my own eyes: empty checkout lines in a grocery (well, whatever kind of) store, with their "open" lights on! Then I realized what was out of whack: There were no cashiers working at any of these supposedly open lines, yet the lights were on. Ticked off, I glanced around to see if I could spot a manager to tell him how psychologically cruel it was to customers to give the false impression of open lines when actually they weren't in service. And it was while glancing about for a to-be-lectured manager that I saw Them, and they rocked my world. Over these open-but-empty lines were signs saying "Self Checkout Lines."

I looked away, expecting the mirage to be gone when I looked back, but no, there they were: Self Checkout Lines. Dozens of them, hundreds of them, thousands, as far as the eye could see (actually, about five), all open and all empty. Summoning up courage from reservoirs that had last been tapped 20 years ago when, hoping to become a responsible car maintainer, I decided to check the oil and add a couple of quarts but mistakenly filled the engine with transmission fluid instead of motor oil, I pulled out of the safe haven of the non-self-checkout line and headed for the new frontier.

A fair amount of fancy gadgetry loomed at the front of the traditional-looking checkout counter, and my arrival triggered a recorded voice that instructed me to scan each item and then place it on the belt, which would begin moving after the first scan went through. A bag of carrots and a gallon of milk, no problem. Two loaves of bread and a container of strawberries, scanomatic. And then I froze; the remaining items in my cart didn't have bar codes because they were fresh vegetables that I'd bagged myself. I didn't see a scale or a sign telling me what to do, and I certainly didn't find a real-time contextual-based pull-down electronic self-help menu (although I suspect one was there), so I did what I think most people would do: I paid for what I could scan, bagged it, and left the other stuff in the cart at the head of the Self Checkout Line.

Bleeding edge? Not exactly. Cowardly? You bet. But will I go back to that store? Very likely. Because, in spite of my technological shortcomings, I think it's trying to make my life easier.

Bob Evans
Editor-in-Chief
bevans@cmp.com