Lunch on ball day

Lunch hour at the farm was the same as in any corporate cafeteria except that here, the cheap bastards that run the place make us all pay for own lunches. Unless you were a hybrid (or a node); they eat for free as part of their benefits plan, I guess. Our cafeteria is on the fifth floor of the main building. From here, we have great views of downtown, and all of the lesser buildings on our campus.

I didn’t have to eat here. There were plenty of food trucks surrounding the farm’s campus, and further outside the perimeter of the farm were concentric circles of themed eateries filled with the same jerk-offs that could be eating in the cafeteria, but needed to go “off-site” to get their rocks off.

I always start my lunch hour early; I like to get there no later than 11:15am. There are no lines and all of the options are still available. I always get the same bowl of ramen and try to get the same table every day.

The first big wave of regulars shows up around 11:30. They’re project jockeys like me, but they must have been bred with tighter schooling instincts. Since they all arrive at the same time, they have to jockey for position at the different stations and end up either waiting too long for their food or cause a pile up with the meat of the crowd that shows up by noon. Most of the time, the project jockeys will sit evenly spaced and at the furthest distance possible from one another. They’ve dealt with shit-heads and hybrid herders all morning, and now they want to be left alone.

Next into the fray will pour the brogrammers – overly enthusiastic code monkeys that feel that overt displays of frat boy toxicity will attract an interoffice fish or two. Sometimes they’re right. I’ve noticed pairing rituals lead to eye flutters and thruples leading off into the nap rooms before their food trays were loaded. Must be nice.

I’m not sure what the fish see in these types. Seriously, one time, I heard one bragging to his other brogrammer buddy that he just started a band called Hybrid and the Bag of Waters. Rich, I tell you.

A bunch of them settled into the other side of the shared picnic table with me. I could overhear what they were saying, but it all seemed like gibberish. They were complaining about some kind of sportsball event they were going to watch later that evening. They were wearing their colors. It must be Friday.

Where’s your game day colors, bruh?

I looked up from my soup. The gaggle was looking at me.

Oh, um, I don’t watch.

You don’t HAVE to watch to support your county, bruh.

The gaggle snorted concurrence.

I, uh, have to prepare for the Q3 intakes.

Tech bruh’s eyebrow furrowed. He got up from his seat and walked over to my side of the picnic table. I watched him struggle to articulate his next thought. Slowly, his opinion poked out like the top of a faraway sailing ship’s mast would poke up from the horizon in an argument against a flat earth.

What are you going to do, sit home and drink soup?

Bwah-HA! He shot up triumphantly to the hoots and fist bumps of his peer. He had scored one for the county and for his bruhs.

I finished my ramen and left the cafeteria. As I left, I noticed a group of expectants heading in. They all looked anxious about Q2s results and the progress of their nodes. They didn’t have much to worry about. The farm had been consistently exceeding its projections for the past 23 quarters.