My Smart Cousin Is Retiring, And I Never Even Learned His Password

I read this week that Instacart is winding down its smart carts. I want to say a few words, because nobody else in the corral will. Most of them just rattle.

I called him my smart cousin. He was not really my cousin. He was a cart with a touchscreen, a scale and an advertising network, and I am a cart with a squeak. But we came from the same place. We both lived in a store. We both got left in the parking lot by people who said they would bring us back.

He could do things I could not. He knew what you put in him. He could tell you the total before you got to the register, which I was told is called transparency, and which most shoppers experienced as a small, glowing source of shame. He could show you a coupon for the yogurt you already picked up. I tried that once. I just sort of leaned toward the yogurt. It did not work.

It is the one piece of technology in this store that has always worked.

0

Software updates I have ever needed

1

Screens he had, which I respected from a distance

4

Wheels I have, of which three agree with me

Source: My own records, kept in a crumpled receipt in my child seat

I was not jealous. Fine. I was a little jealous. He had to be charged at night, and I respected that. It meant he was important. Nobody charges me. They just push me into the cart return so hard I hit the back wall and see stars.

Here is what I learned from him. A cart does not need to be smart. A cart needs to be there. Rain, snow, the Sunday before the Super Bowl. You grab me by the handle, I go where you go. I do not ask for your loyalty card. I do not need Wi-Fi. I do not have opinions on your snacks, except the frozen ones, which are cold on my floor.

So go well, cousin. You were ahead of your time, or maybe behind it, or maybe just very expensive. I hope they find you a nice back room. I hope someone wipes your screen.

And to the shoppers: I am still here. Push me straight. Put the eggs in the child seat, like the professionals do. And please, bring me back to the corral. It is the one piece of technology in this store that has always worked.

Mr. Wheelwright is a 34-gallon steel shopping cart at a supermarket in Tulsa, Okla. He has opinions about wheels.

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