Discount store manipulatives

April 4, 2008
By Kris Kolk

Shopping--what happened to the tactile satisfaction? When checking out, all we get are vague beeps as products are swiped. The beep carries no vocal authority. Shaky, wavering and unsure of itself, like a newborn chicken, sometimes it doesn’t beep at all. The self-check patron must plead for each beep. Swiping and swiping, please oh please, just beep.

Not like back in the day. I remember when a cash register sat mightily on the counter, as a powerful gatekeeper between purchaser and purchases. Not until this behemoth gave the go-ahead was a transaction completed. With intention, a cashier (remember those?) would press each button to emanate a gratifyingly crunchy-sounding click.

That necklace for $1.95 would sound like this—1 (crunch-click) decimal (crunch-click) 9 (crunch-click) 5 (crunch-click) and then an acknowledgement from the great-one (grumble-rumble) as the amount was swallowed up. The necklace would then be placed on the other side of the master machine. Once all items were gathered on the other side, bagging began. And then, (riiiip) of the receipt. Not like the quiet receipt sweep-tug of today.

One store used a rip-off portion of their price tags to designate store departments. After the perforated portion of the price tag was detached, it would be dropped into a cut-out in the counter like the cashier was placing a ballot in a box. There were about three square holes cut into the counter, keeping score for each department. The process used to go like this: (crunch-click), (crunch-click), (crunch-click) (grumble-rumble)—rip off tag (criiick), (place your vote).

Oh, and remember when bags, usually paper bags, were stapled shut? How much more final can you get? Staple, staple, staple…you’re done, mister. Have a nice day.

Nowadays, apathetic plastic bags don’t care if they allow stuff to fall out or rip through the bottom. If something slips into the bag by mistake, Beep’s older brother, Door-Tone, stationed at the exit like a night club bouncer, alerts personnel, and other shoppers, that something went amiss with your business deal. Door-Tone has the audacity to imply that it was probably your fault.

Venture stores used to have amazing strips of tape to hold bags shut. You wouldn’t think tape would be so amazing, but you would be wrong. This tape was thin, yet sturdy. It read: VENTUREVENTUREVENTUREVENTURE on it. If you made a purchase at the pharmacy or jewelry counter, that tape sealed the bag, communicating to the world that you are, indeed, paid in full. But the most amazing thing about this tape was its dispenser. Nothing less than space-age, cloaked in a vessel of substance, the tape would be dispensed at the push of a lever. Then, a most satisfying (zwiip) of tape would appear. Just enough. No more. Sometimes cashiers would (zwiip), (zwiip), (zwiip)—fascinating me with their domination of the technology.

I dreamily recall marveling as the grocer priced canned goods. The cans appeared before him, lined up like soldiers awaiting knighthood. With a dangerous-looking metal price machine, the blessings began. Swift and with a veteran grocer’s wrist—(kachunk), (kachunk) (kachunk), (kachunk)—a purple price stamped onto each of their shiny heads.

These days, my senses crave attention. I might as well go vending.

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