Work Text:
I have become ‘a regular’ at the the hospital cafeteria. I despise becoming ‘a regular’ at a restaurant, it is such a viscerally horrifying experience that I seek to never go to any one place often enough for that to occur.
When you go out in public, running errands, shopping for carrots, picking up a coffee, purchasing socks, you can do so in the complete comfort and assurance that you are not truly being perceived by others. The cashier at the grocery store or the barista at a coffee shop are no more aware of your existence than any other random person on the street. You will interact, you will place your order and pay, and that cashier will not remember you for any longer than it takes for you to leave the building. You are not human, you are merely one in an endless series of interactions, each as ephemeral as the last.
There is, therefore, no expectation of humanity, no sense of obligation. You are free to be a ghost, a meaningless interaction. You have left no impact upon this person’s life, and absolutely nothing would have changed if you had simply not chosen to buy a coffee that day. You might as well not exist, and isn’t that such a wonderful thing? To divorce yourself from the concept of humanity, of importance, of any kind of influence upon the world. You barely even exist, what does it matter if your choices are correct if they do not even change anything for anyone? You are free then to float, to move through existence without the burden of existing at all.
It started as a desire to sleep in. I have never been a morning person, and always seek to go to bed as early and wake up as late as is possible. You see, the hospital has a cafeteria upstairs that serves salads, soup, sandwiches, and various hot meals at lunch, and in the morning will have coffee, pastries, and little breakfast sandwiches. I, loathsomely so, developed a habit. If I woke up at 6:30, or even 7 AM, then I could still get to work on time and run upstairs to get breakfast before morning rounds. I would get an egg, bacon, and cheese on an English muffin, and on particularly exhausted mornings I would add a cup of coffee.
It started small at first. The cashier always asked ‘cash, debit, or credit?’ Whenever someone approached. I then created the habit of having my card already out and in my hand before I even approached the cashier, which then led to her asking simply ‘debit or credit?’. I would pay, exchange a polite ‘thank you, have a nice day!’ before leaving.
The first day she failed to ask me if I was paying credit or debit, I did not notice. I am therefore not exactly sure when it first started to happen.
What followed, however, was nothing short of dreadful.
I was not hungry one morning, I am not really sure why, but I was exceptionally tired, so I went upstairs to the cafeteria. I served myself a coffee from the dispenser, put in the requisite two sugars and just enough milk to turn it the color of caramel, and then approached the checkout counter.
“No sandwich for you today, hun?”
The instant terror that struck me at those words was nothing short of debilitating.
It was the existential terror of being perceived.
I was no longer ephemeral. I was no longer a mere ghost, one of an endless line of meaningless interactions that no one would ever remember. In this woman’s eyes I was uncomfortably and unwillingly human. She could see me, she would remember what I said, she would remember my face and remember me as a human being. It is horrifyingly unbearable, to be ripped from the world of ghosts and unwillingly thrust into the role of being human. It is horrifying, to be unwillingly forced to exist.
“No, just a coffee.”
I paid. She did not ask me ‘debit or credit.’
On my way home from work I went to the grocery store and purchased eggs and breakfast sausage. I used the self-checkout scanner, as I always do, and slipped back into the role of ephemeral ghost. I set my alarm for 30 minutes earlier than usual, and the following morning I got up and made myself breakfast before going to work. I gave myself the rationale of eating healthier, of spending less money, of improving my health with the act of self-love that is a home cooked meal. This is what I told my coworkers as well, that I was trying to eat out less and save money. I started diligently meal prepping over the weekend, creating five identical bento boxes so that way each morning I only had to grab one out of the fridge at the same time as I grabbed my eggs and sausage, and therefore preventing me from going to the cafeteria to buy a soup or sandwich in the afternoons.
I was saving money. I was eating healthier. I was being a responsible adult.
But the real reason, the driving force behind my change in habits, was simply the utter terror of being perceived as human.
On Tuesdays we have textbook rounds at 8:30 in the cafeteria. I was exhausted, I had barely slept the night before. I have two grants due next Monday, I only managed to read the first 100 pages of my textbook, and my husband and I had stayed up late arguing over something. The Canada Games are being hosted by the university right now, so I had to get to work even earlier than usual just to find parking. I was dead on my feet. And I was already in the cafeteria.
I decided my exhaustion was worse than being seen as human.
I served myself a coffee from the dispenser (creme brûlée flavored today, which takes the bitterness out of it), put in the requisite two sugars and just enough milk to turn it the color of caramel, and then approached the checkout counter.
It was a different person. A tall, slight man, perhaps 18 or 20, I presume an undergrad working part time in the cafeteria to help pay for school. He didn’t even make eye contact, glancing at the cup of coffee in my hand before quickly ringing it up in the POS system
He did not see me as human.
“Debit or credit?”
I paid, exchanged a polite ‘thank you, have a nice day,’ before leaving.