Chance Encounters: Self-Checkout, Bill Gates, and the Loss of Shared Humanity

When I was a kid, Target was a Big Deal. Before our mom fully parked the car, my two brothers and I would have our seat belts unbuckled, giggling with excitement. We’d trip over ourselves racing towards the front entrance, slowing down just enough to wave shyly to the friendly security guard on our way to conquering our adventureland.

Meanwhile our mom took her time situating our little sisters in the cart. She’d stroll in, comfortable letting us roam free to play with the boxed toys while she picked out bread, flip through picture books while she looked for detergent, and play epic rounds of hide-and-seek in the clothing sections while she chatted with a neighbor she’d bumped into.

When she was done shopping, she’d round us up to hit the check-out, greeting the cashiers by name. They’d catch up on local gossip or recount mundane weekend happenings, making sure to ask me and my brothers about our own newly beginning lives while we slipped candy bars onto the conveyor belt. If we were lucky enough, the cashiers would help convince our mom to buy them.

***

August 28th, 2023 — back to campus and a familiar routine. Pack up the computer, pull on the coat, pop in the earbuds, and play the music loud enough to miss the friend calling out from across the street. On the subway, on the shuttle, in the Square. We’re all tired, we’re all just trying to get through the day, moving from one commitment to the next. Silence over small talk. Comfortable solitude over unpredictable interactions.

Giant glowing touch screens in boba tea shops now ask you to choose your size, flavor and add-ins. At Starbucks, pre-ordered drinks are shoveled onto the counter by the dozens — silent students, headphones on, rush in to grab one and rush out. As I wait for the text that my order is ready, I scroll through headlines announcing the new age of self-driving taxis and Amazon’s drone delivery program.

I think about how the Taco Bell drive-thru in my quaint hometown is lined with cars at all hours of the day, people ordering from a lit-up menu and an AI server. Even my favorite local cafe has an app where you can order ahead, and pick up your drink without saying a word to anyone. Great if you’re in a rush and need to grab and go. Great if you just don’t feel up to chatting with the overly-friendly barista that day.

I don’t know how old I was when Target’s “SELF-CHECKOUT” appeared in all its glowing, automated glory, but I do know I was excited. It was so fast! So easy! Now, while my mom checked out our groceries, my siblings and I could run over to a self-checkout kiosk. There, we could easily slip our coins and petty cash into the machine to buy our own goodies without waiting or holding up the line or sitting through the questions we were beginning to feel awkward answering.

***

February 3rd, 2025 — hundreds of my classmates and I squeeze into Sanders Theatre to listen to Bill Gates, a Harvard dropout and billionaire philanthropist, talk about his new book and old beliefs.,

He opens by saying that relationships are more important than technology — a statement I found too obvious to merit attention, let alone be presented as profound.

But then, Gates and the moderator spend an hour touching on the myriad uses of technology without following up on his initial point. He speaks casually about advancements towards greater human efficiency and endorses the artificial, automated replacements of so many jobs.

To Gates, the current cycle of technological advancements and job substitutions is the way of the world — no reason to sound the alarms or ring the doomsday bell. People will not be made obsolete by the rise of AI or new tech, he (and others) argue. In a recent interview with CNN, Gates pointed to the rise of agricultural productivity in 1900 as another example of people needlessly making a fuss about technology threatening their livelihoods. “A lot of new job categories were created and we’re way better off than when everybody was doing farm work,” he told CNN.

Gates closes his Harvard talk by saying again that relationships are the most important thing that you’ll build.

I wonder, though, what relationships he’s referring to.

When I was a kid, I was so excited by self-checkout: its speed, its ease, its ability to save me from a strained, polite conversation. It was a few years before I looked up and realized that only one human–checkout lane was ever in service. And all my favorite cashiers — the old woman who made jokes with my mom, the young man who fist bumped me and my brothers — were gone.

Gates’ argument that technology and automation don’t pose long term economic threats rests on the assumption that the jobs we’re replacing don’t have any other value, while ignoring the little things we’re losing, like conversations with strangers. If a machine can count coins, it’s okay if we get rid of cashiers. Who cares about conversing with taxi drivers? They can go, too. Chit-chat with a barista in a cafe is a waste of time — let’s remove the obstacle between you and your coffee so you don’t waste a second before the next, more important thing.

To Gates’ point, not all the humans in my old adventure land have been replaced. Now, they wait for the machines to malfunction or for you to accidentally double scan an item. They quietly swoop in to enter the right codes so you can turn your back to them once again.

Is this really better?

As ironic as it sounds, there was community and connection in the Target of my childhood — despite it being a big box, corporate chain store. But the same people who would hold up the line cracking jokes at the checkouts now go and speak to no one.

Humans will continue to progress towards maximizing our efficiency, productivity, and profits. We will continue to adapt to the technology that emerges. In and of itself, the loss of cashiers seems insignificant. Self-driving cars and pre-order systems at first feel innocuous, or even beneficial. But they add to a larger trend of turning towards our screens and away from one another.

Moments of unplanned interactions are fleeting. Headphones on, we miss the woman at the corner selling flowers. Avoiding the restaurant, we may never meet that cute waitress and get her number. Choosing the “quiet trip” option on Uber, we may not ever know which local attractions are worth the time from the driver who has been to them.

We continually underestimate how enjoyable, enriching — and unawkward — it is to see into other people’s worlds for a moment. As our society becomes increasingly digitized and optimized, we’re losing chance conversations and the unconsidered, ancillary things that are essential to being a person, to being part of a group. None of us, though we may all feel more comfortable in the day-to-day, are the better for it.

It can be different. Each day is comprised of choices: to talk to the barista or order ahead; to put the headphones on or make conversation with the person sitting next to us on the T; to open ourselves up, or to close ourselves off to the world around us. As moments of random connection become increasingly difficult to find, these choices matter more than ever. But until we recognize that we’ve lost something valuable, there’s no chance of getting it back.

***

September 8th, 2024 — I’m standing on the platform waiting for the Green Line train to take me into Boston. Earbuds in, eyes down, my version of neon signs flashing in the restaurant window: “Closed. Closed. Closed.” All around me, people stand just the same.

But movement to my right makes me look up and see a man, maybe 60 or 70 years old, leaning forward on a walker with tennis ball feet, moving slowly down the line of human statues. When he gets to me, I take out one earbud. He asks very softly if I happen to have some change. I smile and give him some money I have ready. I move to put the earbud back in my ear when he asks me for my name.

“Aurora,” I tell him. “What’s yours?”

As the train pulls in, he tells me that it’s Mark and that he used to be a singer. I help him into the busy car before I can hear the end of his story, and the only other open seat is fifteen rows down. So I say goodbye as the train starts moving, sit down, and again reach for my phone when Mark turns towards me in the crowd and starts singing.

Space opens up nearby and I move to fill it. He is so talented, and it is so beautiful. We talk for all eight stops and he sings me more songs, even some that he had written, and I wish I remembered the lyrics but something about life and the beauty in it being difficult. As we reach his stop, I ask him where he’s going, and he pulls back his hair to reveal a lump on his neck. He tells me that he has throat cancer and that he’s going to the hospital for treatment and that he’s sorry he might not sing as well as he used to. I assure him that his voice is still so amazing. Then I hold the doors open, help him down the stairs, and watch him disappear.

And to think I almost missed it.

— Magazine writer Aurora J. B. Sousanis can be reached at aurora.sousanis@thecrimson.com. Her column “Degrees of Separation” explores the relationship between technology and our growing self-isolation