Butler Archetypes: The Mooch
Written by Bwog Staff
You’re welcome. Yes, you. For what? Glad you asked (see: synergy)—you’re welcome for the second installment of Butler Archetypes! Yesterday’s “Smells Like Weed” portrait should’ve whet your palate; now, brace yourself for a slew of even more Butler-ites. Today, Magnanimous Muffin Sharer Kevin Powers presents us with a vignette of one person whose presence is even peskier than most.
Despite its rather impersonal feel, Butler fosters a subtle camaraderie between students—a collective understanding of each other’s misery. This sense of community leads many Butler-ites to help one another out in small ways; some will motion towards a free seat, or slide over books to make room for a stranger.
But then there are the others—the people who violate this generosity.
“Is this seat taken?” she mouths, motioning towards the chair next to you.
“No,” you respond, scooting over less than an inch (an empty gesture of welcome).
“Great, thanks!” she says, slamming her giant tote bag onto the chair. After getting settled, she takes out a mechanical pencil and clicks it, but nothing happens. She keeps clicking to no avail then lets out an exasperated sigh.
“Excuse me. Hi!” she says, in a stage whisper. “Sorry… my pencil is out. Do you maybe have one I can borrow?”
“Sure,” you reply, handing her an extra pencil. She thanks you profusely and begins to write. Ten minutes later, she’s moved on to the computer, probably to update her status to “Ugghhh butlerrr :(.” Her plans are threatened, though, when a window pops up on her desktop: low battery.
“Excuse me,” she says, with a soft poke to your shoulder. “Sorry to bother you again, but my computer’s dying. Do you think I could borrow your charger?
“Um okay. Sure,” you respond, handing her the cord, hating the green light on your charger that gives you away.
Trying to retain your focus, you open a bag of your favorite Butler snack (quietly, to be polite) and set it on the table. You begin to read, but can’t help but notice her eying your snack. You try to ignore her, but she catches you and makes adamant eye contact.
“Do you mind?” she asks, pointing to your snack. You gesture towards the delicious treat (“All yours,” you mouth, sarcastically), fighting the urge to slap her hand out of the air before it gets to the bag.
With that first bite she takes, you die a little inside, because you know it won’t be the last.