Anything Else While I’m At It?

I was just going to park the car.

I feel that’s important to establish.

I didn’t have any grand ambitions.

Park somewhere, pay for the space, and go into a shop.

A fairly uncomplicated plan.

Apparently, the parking company had other ideas about my role in all this.

There was a time when you just parked.

That was the entire activity.

You left your car in a parking space, put some money in a machine, and walked away.

Now I first have to figure out which of Sweden’s 48 parking companies owns the particular six square metres of asphalt I happen to have left my car on.

I find the sign.

Wrong app.

Right.

Download the app.

Create an account.

Verify email address.

Create password.

Add registration number.

Add payment card.

Accept terms and conditions I haven’t read while simultaneously confirming that I have.

Allow location access.

Yes.

I allow location access.

The app thinks.

We can’t find your location.

…

I look at my phone.

Then at the parking sign.

Then at my phone again.

I AM STANDING IN YOUR CAR PARK.

I can see your sign.

Your sign can see me.

My car is sitting on the ground you want me to pay for.

How much more geographically present do you need me to be?

Eventually, the app finds me.

I pay.

I have now spent approximately seven minutes paying for sixty minutes of parking.

The car is parked.

I have been geographically confirmed.

I head towards H&M.

This is where I make the mistake of thinking the difficult part is over.

I find what I need and head for the checkout.

Or what used to be a checkout.

Now it’s self-service.

I don’t actually mind self-service.

Quite the opposite.

It’s quick. You don’t have to queue. Nobody asks whether you want the receipt in the bag or in your hand.

I’m positive.

So far.

I put my items at the self-checkout.

I want to pay.

That is the entirety of our shared objective.

The machine has other plans.

“Are you a member?”

No.

“Would you like to become a member?”

No.

“Would you like to donate five kronor?”

Not today.

“Would you like a receipt?”

NO.

“How was your experience?”

WE’RE NOT FINISHED YET.

Eventually, I’m allowed to pay.

And this is roughly where I start thinking about the division of labour.

I found the items.

Scanned them.

Paid for them.

Packed them.

H&M has contributed the premises and a number of questions.

I understand that self-service is the future.

What I don’t quite understand is at what point I agreed to the extra job.

I leave the shop feeling that I should at least be entitled to a staff discount.

And actually, that’s almost the strangest part:

I like self-service.

I don’t have to queue. I can do things at my own pace. I don’t have to wait for someone else to help me.

In many ways, it’s better.

But somewhere along the way, the word “service” seems to have changed its meaning.

Service used to mean that somebody did something for me.

Now, increasingly, service means that somebody has built a system where I can do it myself.

And perhaps that’s still service.

I’m just beginning to wonder who it’s really for.

Because I no longer have to wait for people.

Instead, I wait for systems.

Maybe that’s progress.

Or maybe we’ve just changed queues.

Then I stop at ICA Maxi on the way home.

Time for my next shift.

I pick up my scanner, walk around at my leisure and scan my groceries.

I genuinely like this.

There’s something rather nice about it.

A relationship of mutual trust between ICA and me.

I scan my groceries.

ICA assumes I’m not a criminal.

Until it doesn’t.

Random check.

Of course.

Not when I’ve bought a litre of milk and a packet of coffee.

No.

When the trolley looks as though I’m preparing the family for a three-month siege.

That’s when some poor employee has to come over and randomly scan items to make sure I haven’t tried to smuggle out a leek.

And it is quite a fascinating arrangement.

ICA has allowed me to do part of the job myself.

Then ICA needs to check that I’ve done the job properly.

So I’m both a customer and a temporary employee, but apparently still on probation.

The whole system is based on trust.

Right up until the words RANDOM CHECK appear on the screen.

Then you no longer feel like a trusted customer.

You feel like a suspect with a leek.

And even though I KNOW I’ve scanned everything, I immediately become nervous.

Have I scanned everything?

Did I miss something?

Have I stolen something?

Suddenly, I don’t know.

What if I AM the sort of person who steals?

I’m 45 years old with no known history of grocery-related crime, yet I’m standing beside the trolley trying to look relaxed in a way that is guaranteed to make me look guilty.

I smile slightly at the employee.

Why am I smiling?

Stop smiling.

Now I look even guiltier.

She scans one item.

Then another.

I follow her every movement.

Don’t stare.

Be normal.

I no longer know how to be normal.

Eventually:

“Everything looks fine.”

Of course it does.

I’m innocent.

I knew that all along.

Almost.

I leave ICA with my groceries, my dignity, and my spotless criminal record intact.

I hope it comes up in my next performance review.

When I get home, there’s just one small thing left to do.

I need to call the insurance company and update some information.

It should be quick.

I call.

“To help us assist you more quickly, please enter your twelve-digit personal identity number.”

I enter it.

“Thank you.”

A little music.

“Your call is important to us.”

Apparently not, but okay.

“You are number 14 in the queue.”

More music.

“Did you know that you can manage many of your matters on our website?”

Yes.

That’s why I’m calling.

I wait.

“Your call is important to us.”

It’s starting to feel like someone saying, “We really must get together soon,” for the third year running.

Twenty-three minutes later, a human answers.

“Hello and welcome. Who am I speaking to?”

Clara.

“And your personal identity number?”

…

What did you do with the one I entered?

Where did it go?

Is there a small server room somewhere in Borås containing millions of personal identity numbers that nobody ever looks at?

I give my personal identity number again.

“Now I need you to identify yourself using BankID.”

Of course.

I open BankID.

Identify myself.

“And just for security, could you confirm your address?”

Absolutely.

At this point, it feels as though all that remains is a saliva sample and two close relatives confirming that they recognise my voice.

Eventually, I’m approved.

I am me.

It has been established.

We can proceed.

And of course I want it to be difficult for somebody else to be me.

But surely there has to be a point at which I am sufficiently me.

Personal identity number.

Personal identity number again.

BankID.

Address.

I feel we must be getting close.

The actual matter takes four minutes.

The call took twenty-seven.

When I hang up, I sit there for a moment.

And this is where I start wondering when all of this actually happened.

Because I’m not against progress.

Quite the opposite.

I don’t want to go back to bank books, telephone directories, and standing behind three people at the post office while they sort out a postal order.

Most things have become easier.

Faster.

Freer.

But somewhere along the way, something else happened too.

The work moved.

Little by little.

From the company.

To me.

And because every individual change made perfect sense, I never really noticed when I started working.

All I know is that during one perfectly ordinary afternoon, I have administered my own parking, worked the checkout at H&M, handled part of the logistics at ICA, undergone an internal audit, and taken responsibility for my own identity verification with an insurance company.

And at no point has anyone asked whether I have any previous experience.

But if I’m being fair, I feel like I’ve already completed the induction, probation period, and most of the working day.

All I’m missing is an employee number.

And a salary.

But now that I apparently work everywhere, there’s really only one question left:

Who do I send my timesheet to?

Actually, wait.

I suppose I’m expected to approve that myself too.