You don’t know me, but I know you. I know which Gatorade you prefer, which station you frequent the most, how delicious you found the stir fry today or the inadequacies you felt lay in the Beef Stroganoff on Monday. I know what soup you ordered—it was split pea and ham, of which you took just one doleful spoonful before surrendering it to the conveyor belt. I even know what gum you prefer (Big Chew) and the quaint way you like to smush it at the very bottom of your glass of milk before hiding the evidence with a plethora of damp napkins. You just like to surprise me, don’t you. Yes, I know far too much about you—all of you.

Remember than conveyor belt, that amazing contraption that whisks away all the mess of the meal so cleverly, that brilliant machine so like a skillful magician—here’s a quarter, oh, where did it go, where did it go? Is it behind your ear? No, it isn’t, and it’s not a quarter, it’s your lunch, and it’s in my hands the second it leaves yours, and I hate you.

Let me step back a moment: I don’t exactly hate you you, the reader you, the individual, the intellectual browsing Method in search of some scathing yet close-to-home commentary. I salute that you. The you I hate is the plural you, the French vous, the German ihr, the dissociated mass you become at feeding time.

What force on this planet compels a person to put their gum at the bottom of a cup and then sheepishly cover the evidence before handing it off? What drives someone to send their soggy paper napkins and coffee cups down the line to be washed when there are two beautiful and effective trashcans before them? What occurrences lead to a situation where I hold a single black bowl in my hand containing nothing but a large wad of phlegm? These agonizing questions keep me tossing and turning at night as the numbers on my clock swiftly and unfeelingly climb towards dawn.

The only clear answer to be found is our distance—yours and mine. You can’t see me on the other side of that metal wall—my fears and agonies are not your own, and I am reduced to a concept, not a person. When the element of tangible consequence is gone, college students devolve into irrational beings, perhaps believing that beyond the conveyor belt lurk benevolent Oompa Loompas, whooping gleefully about the uneaten Panini that dances towards them. But if that wall were gone, you would see that I am human and that I reek of dishwater.

So what can we do? you cry helplessly, tears staining your monitor and fists feebly beating your keyboard as you truly see for the first time the horror within your own soul. It is imperative that you visualize someone at the other end of that belt when you put your plates down. I suggest you picture someone you cherish: your kindly grandmother who just got that hip replacement, or whomever you’re trying to sleep with at the moment. Ugh, gross, she didn’t finish this turkey sandwich, and she spilled Pepsi on it? Next.

In the end, I am satisfied with the priceless treasures I’m getting out of this job: a free lunch, some money in the bank, two Bon Appétit t-shirts, and a buoying sense of superiority.

by Hanna Bahedry