If there was ever a poster child for how working a shitty job could only make you mean-spirited, it was this woman. Living, breathing confirmation that doing something you hated for the sake of compensation (nominal though it may be) could only turn you ugly inside and out. And sure, rich people were plenty ugly on the inside (and sometimes, no matter how much cosmetic surgery, even on the outside) and mean, too. But there was something different about it. As if, because it was so “hidden”—that meanness in them—by “politesse,” “civility” and fake smiles, it didn’t register the same way as a broke ass’ unvarnished meanness. Though maybe “hidden” is no longer the right word for rich people’s nefariousness, what with everyone knowing about the horrific goings-on at a certain private island and still choosing to let rich people go unchecked in their barbaric behaviors. All while “running the world” in such a manner as to make women (and men alike) such as this turn as bitter and hardened on the exterior as they were on the interior.

More than that, the way that the world worked (by patently not working for anyone except a small percentage) made a woman like this despise anyone else they encountered who couldn’t possibly fathom what it was to be this “down at heel.” And it was true, it probably didn’t get much more down at heel than being a public bathroom attendant (a title that lent an even more layered meaning to the term “shitty job”). Someone tasked with not only taking people’s money so they, in turn, could take a piss (although, more likely, a shit), but also regularly ensuring the “cleanliness” of the facilities (even if what that generally entailed, for grudging workers such as these, was spraying a bit of “anti-odor essence” in the stalls every so often and occasionally making sure that the toilet paper didn’t need to be restocked).

In the present situation that Allie Treehorn found herself in, however, the sour-faced Black woman, somewhere in her mid-sixties (or perhaps the job had prematurely aged her and she was actually younger) couldn’t even be bothered with the bare minimum of her job description, which was to take the one-euro payment that Allie was offering up in coin form to secure her bladder relief. Apparently discombobulated that she wasn’t paying with a debit or credit card instead.

Although a part of Allie admired the European precedent of making people pay for the “privilege” of “unleashing” from one or more of their orifices, another part felt that there was, undeniably, something exclusionary about it. Something patently designed to ensure that the “dregs” of society couldn’t get in and somehow defile the premises. Even though, at the very least, it was more straightforward (and cheaper) than what transpired in the U.S. in order to use a public bathroom, an overpriced endeavor at a joint like Starbucks or Pret-a-Manger if you wanted to “relieve yourself” (that all too euphemistic phrase). At least the one- (or more) euro policy in Europe was direct—and slightly more economical than paying five dollars for a coffee that would only need to make you piss again within the next thirty minutes.

Still, seeing how cruel and miserable this woman (who wasn’t even considered “relevant” enough by whoever employed her to be given a name tag or a proper uniform) was working here, Allie had to question if it really was the better system. And if maybe it wasn’t a prime example of one of the jobs that should be taken over by “the robots” (a.k.a. AI). Especially since this woman, in all her contempt for her own existence and everyone else’s, couldn’t even seem to perform this most basic function of her job: taking the money. However it was presented. At least a robot wouldn’t transfer its enraged energy to Allie, leaving her feeling unsettled by what should have been a totally innocuous and forgettable interaction.

And as she thought this, she realized it was probably how most corporate overlords thought as well when it came to “doing away with the help” in favor of an automated entity. Because “dealing with” angry (because of being low-paid) humans was too much to bear for them. And when she caught herself identifying with the “massa,” she knew she was in trouble. That she had crossed some line into being an oppressor herself now (that is, more so than usual in the sense that she and everyone else engaging with “the system” on a day-to-day basis was guilty of oppressing someone somewhere for the sake of their comfort). She was an oppressor just by even partaking in this “enterprise”: a public “for pay” toilette. But what choice did she have ultimately? It wasn’t as if she could whip her dick out and piss in some randomly appearing/private-and-removed-enough bush. This was her option.

The same went for the bathroom attendant. This was her option. And no matter how frequently vile and grotesque it was, it paid her way in life. Presumably. Though, knowing how modern capitalism works, it was only too probable that she had a second and perhaps even third job aside from this already thankless one. So sure, maybe Allie could “forgive” being hissed at so venomously for “daring” to give her cash instead of card (because this, for whatever reason, made her job that much more unbearable). And besides, maybe the only benefit of the job at all to her was being able to vent her barely repressed rage at “white bitches” like Allie. Allie who had likely only scrubbed a toilet a handful of times in her entire life, always leaving it up to someone else to do it.

Minutes later, after trying to cleanse the exchange from her mind, Allie stood in the center of Les Halles, deciding what to do next. Since she had already decided not to use that bathroom on principle because of how the woman took out her disdain for her own life on Allie. So maybe she would go into a Starbucks after all to gain access to a toilet. It’s not as if the chain wasn’t all over Paris as much as the U.S. The beauty of globalization in motion. Allowing people to be subjugated and underpaid by an international corporation based on the custom of their own country.