So, I’m making a purchase, and I’m attempting to pay with a card.
Nevermind the fact that paying with a card is an almost-impossible feat in New York, the cradle of all that is pain-in-the-ass. No, I lie. You can pay with a card, as long as your purchase exceeds the minimum charge ordained by a business owner who would much prefer to keep all transactions in harder-to-trace cash. But I digress.
So, I’m making a purchase, and I’m paying with a card. The machine prompts me to enter my “secret code.”
I like to think they call it a “secret code” so that we can all pretend to launch Defcon 1 from the counter at a quickie mart, but sadly, I think it’s because most Americans don’t fully grasp the concept of a PIN. Anyway, before I can respond to the next prompt, the helpful cashier reaches around and pushes the buttons for me. The cashier pushes the buttons for me FOR THE REST OF THE TRANSACTION.
Now, I’ve register-jockeyed quite a bit in my time, and I get it. You’re tired. You deal with a lot of annoying people. You want your day to go by faster. I understand. But I also happen to be in the percentile of the shopping public that can read and follow prompts on a simple machine. While I appreciate your efforts to help me along in the process, at the same time, I want to smack the crap out of you. How about I reach over and hit the keys on your POS terminal? Or open the cash drawer for you? No? Then keep your damn hands to yourself!
Does this bother anyone else as much as it does me?