The "Swipe UP" Girl
I see you walking towards me. I am standing steadfast within my battlements, the faux terrazzo tiles surrounding me, the register sitting atop my station. I am wearing my soldier's uniform - a red khaki shirt that proclaims the name of the university dining company I work for, a beige apron with the same insignia, a red baseball cap, and black dress slacks. You are wearing the uniform of the opposing force - something expensive and fashionable, screaming that you are a student of an Ivy League university. We are deeply unmatched, as your prestige and power far outrank mine. However, this will be no losing battle.
As you approach, I prepare my strategy. I will kill you with kindness. This is my best strategy, and it is the one I have been instructed to enforce upon the minions of WASP, the evil organization that you have birthed from.
"Hello," I say brightly, flashing you a winning smile and a look in my eyes that suggests that I am better than my uniform suggests.
You ignore my eyes completely, and I take +10 damage. I am down but not out.
I kindly take your student ID card from you and carefully slide it in the reader. The reader knows all. the reader will tell me if you are of honest blood; true and noble to humankind.
BLEEEP - "Failed To Read Card"
The reader has failed me. The reader is a terrible mechanism. I hate the reader and all that it stands for.
I am about to launch a counter-defense with a sincere apology when you interrupt my turn.
"Swipe UP." You tell me loudly.
I take another +10 damage. I am critical, but I am not dead yet. This is only the first time. I kindly oblige with your indignant demand and the reader decides to reward us both with a pass. You are free to move beyond my battlements. I am free to breathe a sigh of relief and live another day.
However, it happens again. And again. And again. You wear a different outfit each time, do your hair a little differently. You wear glasses or contacts alternately. Each time, your voice rises with more indignation and irritation. Each time you are more rude, never once saying, "Hello!" or "How are you?" or "I have the card that has issues with the reader and it is no way your fault."
You expect me to remember you among a sea of 500 + faces streaming past me every day.
Oh, I do eventually remember you. Finally, one day I see you approaching. I have had enough of your cuntiness. I have had enough of this low-paying shitty job where I have to deal with sour, haughty types such as yourself.
You walk up.
I snatch the card rudely from your hands, never once giving you eye contact. In fact, I stare straight ahead. I make a point to slowly bring the card to the bottom of the reader, and then violently swipe it forward, my lips tightening as I do this. I do not break eye contact with some indefinite space as I hold my hand out towards you, letting the card sit loosely in my fingers as though it were to drop in any moment.
"Thank...you?" You say, perplexed, shocked perhaps that I have remembered you and your little issue. You walk unsurely past.
But I am not done yet. Not by a long shot.
For you see, I will always remember you. Every time you walk past now, I take the card and do what you wish. I do not say, "Hello!" I do not say, "Thank you!" I simply take the card and do exactly what you wish. But this is not all.
For I will not remember your name, I make it a point not to ever look at your card and remember your name.
I will simply remember you with a single phrase.
Some day, when you have graduated from your Ivy League University, you will move on to bigger and greater things. Perhaps you will be some high-powered lawyer. Perhaps you will become some important political figure. Or perhaps you will simply own a large chain of expensive boutiques in New York.
I will be in mixed company - a gaggle of gay men, a dinner party with assorted relatives and friends. Your face will come up on the television screen, a laptop website or upon the entertainment section of the newspaper. Someone will be paying attention with only a semi-vested interest.
I will suddenly speak up, loudly, from my corner of the room.
"Oh, her." I will say, staring towards your falsely smiling face, "I knew her once."
I will be given somewhat interested looks by the people around me. Perhaps someone will ask me to explain further.
"She went to [Name Omitted Yet Obvious] when I worked there." I will tell them simply, "The Swipe-Up Girl."
The looks of bewilderment and pleas to divulge further will be enough of a victory for me.
For you see, this is how I have power over you.
You will forever be known to me as the Swipe-Up Girl, and the meaning that entails will forever be left to the interpreter.
As you approach, I prepare my strategy. I will kill you with kindness. This is my best strategy, and it is the one I have been instructed to enforce upon the minions of WASP, the evil organization that you have birthed from.
"Hello," I say brightly, flashing you a winning smile and a look in my eyes that suggests that I am better than my uniform suggests.
You ignore my eyes completely, and I take +10 damage. I am down but not out.
I kindly take your student ID card from you and carefully slide it in the reader. The reader knows all. the reader will tell me if you are of honest blood; true and noble to humankind.
BLEEEP - "Failed To Read Card"
The reader has failed me. The reader is a terrible mechanism. I hate the reader and all that it stands for.
I am about to launch a counter-defense with a sincere apology when you interrupt my turn.
"Swipe UP." You tell me loudly.
I take another +10 damage. I am critical, but I am not dead yet. This is only the first time. I kindly oblige with your indignant demand and the reader decides to reward us both with a pass. You are free to move beyond my battlements. I am free to breathe a sigh of relief and live another day.
However, it happens again. And again. And again. You wear a different outfit each time, do your hair a little differently. You wear glasses or contacts alternately. Each time, your voice rises with more indignation and irritation. Each time you are more rude, never once saying, "Hello!" or "How are you?" or "I have the card that has issues with the reader and it is no way your fault."
You expect me to remember you among a sea of 500 + faces streaming past me every day.
Oh, I do eventually remember you. Finally, one day I see you approaching. I have had enough of your cuntiness. I have had enough of this low-paying shitty job where I have to deal with sour, haughty types such as yourself.
You walk up.
I snatch the card rudely from your hands, never once giving you eye contact. In fact, I stare straight ahead. I make a point to slowly bring the card to the bottom of the reader, and then violently swipe it forward, my lips tightening as I do this. I do not break eye contact with some indefinite space as I hold my hand out towards you, letting the card sit loosely in my fingers as though it were to drop in any moment.
"Thank...you?" You say, perplexed, shocked perhaps that I have remembered you and your little issue. You walk unsurely past.
But I am not done yet. Not by a long shot.
For you see, I will always remember you. Every time you walk past now, I take the card and do what you wish. I do not say, "Hello!" I do not say, "Thank you!" I simply take the card and do exactly what you wish. But this is not all.
For I will not remember your name, I make it a point not to ever look at your card and remember your name.
I will simply remember you with a single phrase.
Some day, when you have graduated from your Ivy League University, you will move on to bigger and greater things. Perhaps you will be some high-powered lawyer. Perhaps you will become some important political figure. Or perhaps you will simply own a large chain of expensive boutiques in New York.
I will be in mixed company - a gaggle of gay men, a dinner party with assorted relatives and friends. Your face will come up on the television screen, a laptop website or upon the entertainment section of the newspaper. Someone will be paying attention with only a semi-vested interest.
I will suddenly speak up, loudly, from my corner of the room.
"Oh, her." I will say, staring towards your falsely smiling face, "I knew her once."
I will be given somewhat interested looks by the people around me. Perhaps someone will ask me to explain further.
"She went to [Name Omitted Yet Obvious] when I worked there." I will tell them simply, "The Swipe-Up Girl."
The looks of bewilderment and pleas to divulge further will be enough of a victory for me.
For you see, this is how I have power over you.
You will forever be known to me as the Swipe-Up Girl, and the meaning that entails will forever be left to the interpreter.