This morning, the DCT was especially somber as cooks trudged in, weary-eyed and battered from catering to the whims of every hungry student who came their way. Some gasped as one of their ranks fell to the ground from sheer exhaustion, while others weren’t awake enough to register it. Seeing his friends in such a state, one man stood on a table and cleared his throat loudly about five or six times before the dazed workers noticed him.
“6 years. I’ve been here for 6 years. I thought I had it bad, then they made me work in a tent. It was like working in a shitty summer camp except all the kids are old and sad. Jesus, a tent! Once I swear, I saw a girl drop her entire tray of food just to watch me clean it up. Then there was the time I lost two of my fingers replacing the pot of self-serve mac and cheese. The job never gets easier, but we, we get stronger.”
As the man continued, mostly quoting the speech from Independence Day, the atmosphere in the once forlorn cafeteria gradually shifted. The occasional tear sizzled on the pre-heated stir fry bar, and for the first time in as long as any of them could remember, they had hope.
“There’s nothing those… things,” he said as he pointed at the horde of students pushing at the entrance, “haven’t thrown at us already. And we’re still here aren’t we? So tonight, we dine with the gods!” he bellowed just as the lunch rush began to pour in. DCT staff quickly rushed to their places, preparing for the onslaught that was to come.
The heroic worker took one last look at his compatriots before yelling “Make way, coming through!” grabbing a cart of clean plates and mowing down several freshmen.
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