The man downstairs

I have nothing but resentment for Brush Cut, the guy who checks IDs in my office building.

I've been with this company for over a year now. Brush Cut sees me every morning. He sees me around 1:00pm, when I go out for lunch. He sees me when I return from lunch. Until I whip out that ID card, however, we are strangers.

When I first started working in this building, getting my ID card was something of a chore. It took a really long time and a lot of nagging. In those days, Brush Cut waved me through with a smile. When I finally got the card, however, it all changed. Brush Cut now stares me down with the blankest of faces as I fumble in my wallet for that little square of plastic. He pretends he's never seen me before. When I produce the card, he smiles and greets me. I glare at him and make my way to the elevators.

I wouldn't feel so much resentment if I knew all the other employees of this building suffered as I do. But they don't. Brush Cut picks and chooses who gets to walk right by and who gets stopped. It's not based on face recognition, because I can assure you I've had the same face for the past year. It's based on something far more sinister. On the occasions when I forget my card, I'm forced to sign in and I'm given a visitor name tag. Brush Cut knows I'm no visitor.

I fear I might snap someday and lash out at Brush Cut. Until then, I will curse him silently and try to keep my ID card in a more prominent location. Damn you, Brush Cut.