Changes in world push adaptability

I’m a rotary-dial man in a touch-tone world.

Despite my professional career as a software engineer, I find in my personal life that I’m somewhat resistant to change, apparently on some personal mission to be the Rock of Gibraltar guarding tradition from the onslaughts of technology.

It’s not that I don’t try to change; I do. I’ve put away the Beatles and Stones eight-tracks and dipped my toe in the radio Zoo’s musical waters.

Alas, I can hip, but I can’t hop. I find my radio dial creeps, like me on the freeway, over to the oldies station. But there are some situations that force me to deal with the new realities of today.

One is self-service checkout counters. These invasive islands of insults permeate big box retail outlets of all types — from food stores to, God forbid, formerly testosterone-building hardware heavens.

It’s not like we can avoid these counters. Given a choice of a long line of shopping basket-busting customers, or the self-service checkout seductively whispering, “Hey sailor, want a quick one?” we guys are defenseless.

Now, like the indistinct third sheep from the left in some giant flock of shoppers, I’m toting multiple store club cards on my key ring in full sight of women and Teamsters. I can’t produce anything rhythmic on a dance floor, but now I’m reduced to executing some intricate ballet as I grab my purchase, tilt it to the UPC side, glide it over some glass reader, tap it on some color pad, for luck I guess, and bring it to rest in a plastic enclosure resting on a metal scale. I’ve forgotten the exact date of some of my kids’ birthdays, but I now know the produce code for bananas by heart. This just isn’t right.

I long for the days of repartee with the cute checkout lady. We had a routine. I’d say, “New hairdo? Cute!” She’d say, “Protein bars, low-carb yogurt? Looking good, Mr. H.” Now all I get is an argument with an inanimate object about whether I did in fact place the cashews in the bag.

At the very least, the checkout computer, instead of questioning my character, should try some human touch. Replace the monotone “Take purchases and please exit the bagging area,” with random exit phrases, like a John Wayne-like voice drawling “Grab your vittles and get the heck out of Dodge!” or a Jethroe Bodine saying “Whew doggies, frozen eclairs again! C’mon home, Granny!”

Another technological change looms on the horizon, threatening us traditionalists with some new-fangled law called Check 21. For anyone who owns a checking account this means changes.

Currently, when you write a check, that check is deposited in the check recipient’s bank, then the check is physically transported to a clearinghouse. The transportation method often includes overnight shipping and chartered planes, though if I wrote the check, I’d prefer a mule train. The clearinghouse then sends the check back to the check writer’s bank. The amount of travel time taken by that slip of paper with your John Hancock on a backdrop of prancing puppies is called “the float,” the period from when you write the check until the money is removed from your account. The finances of Americans who run out of cash two days before payday — millions of us — are built on the time-honored tradition of “the float.”

Under Check 21 law, the physical check will no longer be required to make its dizzying round trip. Something called a substitute check (aka an image replacement document or IRD) will now suffice, and it will make the trip at high transmission speeds. This is a response to tragedies like 9/11 and hurricanes that can affect the transfer of the physical checks, thus disrupting banking.

I made some calls to local banks and a large credit union to gauge the effect of Check 21. The responses ranged from “Speak English, Sir” to an intelligent discussion of the concept. Forward any questions to your local banking institution.

Luckily I can adapt. I’m ready to replace one old expression with a modern one.

My new bill-collector response is, “The substitute check image is already in the wire.”