The Ballad of the Unidentified Item in the Bagging Area

Barry, a man whose preferred method of commerce involved a human cashier and zero existential dread, found himself at the self-checkout. His bounty: a single avocado and a bag of crisps. He scanned the avocado. Beep! Victory. He scanned the crisps. Nothing. He tried again. "UNIDENTIFIED ITEM IN THE BAGGING AREA. PLEASE REMOVE," the machine intoned, its voice dripping with judgment, as if Barry were personally smuggling a small, very illegal badger.

Barry peered into the empty bagging area, then frantically checked his pockets, even his shoe. "There's nothing here, you metallic tyrant!" he whispered, a bead of sweat tracing a path past his ear. The queue behind him silently grew, each person's gaze a laser beam of impatience. The machine repeated its accusation, now with an added layer of robotic exasperation. Barry was seconds away from offering his avocado as a sacrificial peace offering when a young assistant, sensing his impending breakdown, ambled over. She leaned down, picked up a microscopic, barely visible barcode sticker from the floor *next* to the bagging area. "This," she said, holding it aloft like a trophy, "is usually the culprit." Barry paid, fled, and mentally added "self-checkout" to his list of phobias, right after public speaking and those spiders that jump.