We are disposable. We are brains on sticks you can rent by the hour. We are the labor in a shadow service economy and we are everywhere (wherever there are rich people), but the secrecy with which we operate obscures us from the public and from each other. At home, we have piles of mail unopened, bills we’re late to pay, worries we avoid confronting, unexplained aches and pains. You wouldn’t look at us and think we have our shit together. We don’t. But at the office, we are professional problem solvers. We get the last Airbnb at Coachella, llamas for the petting zoo, the last box of Cohibas from 1955 even though our bosses will never smoke them. In our own lives, we live in fear of the telephone, too anxious to engage with actual people, but at work we are unafraid to hop on the phone and buy a private jet. We spend thousands of dollars choosing the family dog, researching hypoallergenic breeds and longevity pedigrees to ensure the purity of the animal and health of the family. We select a pup with a coefficient of breeding under 6.25 for five generations, but the executive discovers in the sixth generation an unruly, long-haired ancestor. “Which of my children do you want to die of asthma?” he asks us, not rhetorically. We apologize profusely and identify a suitable alternative, who joins the family for six months and then is given away to the dogwalker.

By definition the messiest problems come to us, but we also handle the small and banal. We rule in increments. Our bosses’ time is worth more than money, and we are paid very well to add mere minutes to their days. We sharpen their pencils, wash their fruit, count out their pills. We would chew their food for them if we could. It’s our job to learn what they like and we remember everything.

A surprising number of us have lost a parent. We are motherless children, literally and figuratively. It doesn’t take much to view this couple as our surrogate parents. We are desperate to please them but cynical about our chances.

What we aren’t prepared for is the way the extravagant and pedestrian mix together in every task. We buy sneakers by the dozen, sunglasses by the box, pillows enough to fill a room. We live in fear of the family’s favorite styles being discontinued. When we return twenty-three black T-shirts, paying only a small restocking fee, the executive thanks us for our thrift and judiciousness. But we make $100K a year, we want to cry. And there are twenty of us, at least! Real thrift is impossible under these conditions. Still, our hearts glow brightly for just a moment and we feel seen.