The Inherent Fucking Disrespect of It All
“I should probably get some gas,” she says to herself, telling the truth. “Don't want to pay $12/gallon to Hertz.” She engages her turn signal as any respectable citizen might; slows down with a patience unmirrored by the driver of the Tesla Model 3 behind her, covered in “COEXIST”-esque stickers, roaring past her; and begins her gas-purchasing experience.
It takes a little bit! She finds herself performing an all-too-familiar serpentine maneuv’, as the first pump — then the second — ha, shit, the third too! — all wear yellow bags, sending the background signal we all know-without-knowing: there is no profit in excellence; we are, therefore, not excellent. The fourth pump, though: that’s her boy. Out of the car she hops; pop goes the tank and plunk goes the nozz.
She inserts her card into the reader which has three skimmers hidden inside: another symptom of the shit I was bitching about in the previous paragraph. Her gas is selected — unleaded basic, because that’s what every car takes — and the transaction begins. The station shall receive her money in a free and fair exchange of value!
HEAD ON INSIDE TO BUY DORITOS JALAPENO SUPREME SURPRISE TODAY! screams the video screen on the pump, rudefully declaring its malintent with the first of eleven queued advertisements at maximum volume. This gas station is kinder than most, so she’s still given the option of turning the volume off. She baps the well-worn button with her well-worn button-bapping finger. Peace.
She finishes her transaction; the card network approves and debits her account while simultaneously firing off a dizzying sequence of data ingestion and egress operations, fulfilling their contractual requirements with the 500 data brokers they sell all transactional records to. A software engineer worked hard to design this system. It works well! He was laid off the month before his options vested.
Walking up to the ticketing gate to check in for her flight and tag her bags, she dutifully files into the worthless poor people line because she’s not a SkyPriority OmegaSupreme NotAProle member. The line is heavily congested, as one would expect given that a single overworked ticketing agent is fielding requests from multiple families who have never flown before and expect to be able to check trash bags without even an elastic band to hold them closed.
Bags checked; ticket in hand; she’s off to the races! Pulling out her laptop, a fundamentally-disinterested TSA agent screams at her for not following the airport-specific policy that, in fact, all electronic devices must be in their own bag under your jacket and not in a bin. Fuck you. Intuit it.
As the agent at the gate churns through the 12 different boarding zones designed not for efficiency but the reminder of class and being better than, she waits patiently with a contented look on her face. Soon enough: warm smiles; a welcome embrace; a nice family Christmas. Home! Soon enough indeed.
The last group is permitted to board and she’s on the plane; traversing the tube at a snail’s pace, counting the rows, which jump suddenly from 5 to 14 because the people in First need yet more evidence of their inherent quality, and the people in Trash need more reminders of their place. The flight attendants run through their 2-minute safety dance and leave their friends behind, followed by the 5-minute presentation on the benefits of signing up for the American Express FlyPlus Bronze card today. Fliers are passed out and three people, defying all rationality, accept them expecting anything but exploitation.
whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrCLUNK goes the landing gear and flightattendantsprepareforlanding goes the pilot. Bing…... bong goes the bing-bonger and HOLY FUCK CLICK-CLACK GO FAST GET UP NOW GET MY BAG BEFORE YOU goes every asshole on the plane. She waits patiently now as she will at the baggage claim.
Her elderly father greets her at Zone 6 with a smile and a hug and the first genuine human goodwill she’s been offered in the past 10 hours.