Butler Archetypes: Girl Who Can’t Find Her ID
Written by Bwog Staff
We all have a type. And no, we don’t mean the one you’ll spend most of Heights happy hour trying to stake out—we mean the Butler kind. Join an aggravated Alexandra Svokos as she reports live, from the line at Butler’s Security desk.
She knows it’s in there, somewhere.
In her right hand is an iced coffee , and iPhone between her index and pinkie fingers, and sunglasses hooked around her middle finger despite it being November. Her hair is piled on top of her head. A designer tote bag triple her girth is slung over her shoulder, its magnetic clasp threatening to burst apart.
She handles the heavy doors with confidence, steeling herself for the amount of work that looms ahead. Approaching the security desk , her free left hand reaches to undo the magnetic clasp and fumbles—she breaks stride 18 inches past the second door. She recovers as the bag opens and she lets one strap fall to her elbow to allow it to open further. Two slow steps later, however, she’s still looking for that wallet.
Standing in front of the ID swipe with an exasperated sigh, she plops the iced coffee, the iPhone, and the sunglasses onto the security desk, mumbling “One second… almost got it…” Using her deft right hand she continues rustling through the bag, hitting every corner without success. One by one she pulls out the contents of that giant, giant bag and places them on the desk: a notebook, sheaves of paper, nine million mechanical pencils, a scarf, a framed photo of her family, a half-eaten Power Bar…
Meanwhile, people awkwardly maneuver hands and arms to swipe in around her. Each time it happens she pauses her shuffling to give them an offended look, eyebrows raised.
All sizable items have now been removed from her bag, and are now on display in front of the disgruntled security guard. He pokes suspiciously at a tube lip gloss, and mutters something about getting a guest pass. Finally she crumples to the floor, flipping her bag/tent inside out.
Upon realizing that her wallet is in her coat pocket, she repacks her bag, leaves the spare coins sprawled across the floor, and rises. With a facade of dignity, she collects her things, swipes in, and dons her sunglasses to conceal the single, frustrated tear threatening to leave her eye.