By Anna Lipari

HSSC– Picture this: it’s Monday, 10:03 AM. The world outside is bleary, half-awake and choked with dirty snow. Taking shelter in the HSSC atrium, you remember that the Global Cafe exists. You eye the selection of treats. It’s halfway through the semester, and you’ve still got dining dollars to burn. You deserve this, you think to yourself, but the woman behind the counter looks you up and down with a curled lip when you approach. “Can I help you?” she asks.

“Could I get a dirty chai, please?” 

“Hmm.” She raises an eyebrow. “I bet you want a dirty chai, slut.”

“Excuse me?”

“You want a dirty, filthy, nasty chai, huh? You want to spend $13 on a perverted, degenerate chai latte. How much do you make at that satire rag, $9.25 an hour? You want to spend 14% of your weekly income on a naughty little chai, don’t you?”

“I’m paying with dining dollars,” you protest, and she sneers. 

“As if that makes it any better. Do you really think your grandparents immigrated to a country whose language they barely spoke to labor and save for their children’s children’s futures so that you could spend their hard-won money on a $14 dirty chai?”

She shakes her head. “Do you think they’d approve of this, or would they tell you to buy a black coffee for ten cents and get back to work? If I told them the number of hours you’ve spent writing filthy drivel and kissing humanities majors when you should have been studying, do you think they’d roll in their graves? I think they’d disinherit you, you filthy little slut.” 

You open your mouth to try to defend myself, but she ignores your feeble stammering. “Oh, but you’re going to buy it anyway, aren’t you? You want that dirty chai so badly, you’re going to give me $15 for it, you insignificant liberal-arts whore. You’re like a worm beneath my boot. Doesn’t matter to you that the chai mix we use is just a pathetic, over-sugared imitation of the real thing. You’ll do whatever I tell you to do for that hot, dirty latte. You’re just that desperate for it.” 

You eye the delicious chai and alternative milks lined up neatly on the counter behind her. Your mouth waters. You’re half-aware of a line forming behind you, and humiliation brings a bright red flush to your face. “Say it to me,” she whispers. 

“Can I have a dirty chai?” You draw in a deep, trembling breath, and you beg. “Please?” 

“Pathetic,” she smirks. She holds eye contact as she steams the milk, reveling in your desperation. You can’t keep from drooling as the smell of mediocre coffee fills the atrium. “Here you go,” she says, sweetly, and leans over the counter to pour the fresh chai at your feet. “You know what to do.” And you do. You fall to your knees to suckle the warm, sweet liquid out of the dirty carpet.

“That’ll be $16,” she says, and you pay it gladly.

Overall, I would definitely recommend the Global Cafe! Their prices may be a little steeper than you’ll find at the Spencer Grill, but their exciting selection and superior customer service certainly make up for it. You’d like that, wouldn’t you. Slut,