Despite being practically raised on Subway…I still love me some Subway.
Actually, it’s the 6″ veggie patty on flatbread that I love. With like tons of veggies. On top of the veggie patty.
And I’m not that big of a veggie lover. Go figure.
There are two things that urk (I don’t really like that word, but it just flows good here and I’m wanting more than “bother” but less than “irritate”) me about some people who choose to do Subway.
1. “What can I get you?” “Uh, yeah…let me think. Uhhh, uhhh…let me have the….uhhh, uhhh.”
And you know they’ve been standing in line for approximately 4.8 minutes which is ample time to gaze over that big board that list every sandwich known to man. Or known to man-who-eats-at-Subway.
2. “What can I get you?” “Uh, yeah…I need to get 4 sandwiches.”
Aaaaannndd, they pull out that little crumpled piece of paper with smudged ink all over it.
I could literally die. Especially when I’ve only had a couple of tic-tacs for breakfast. And a peppermint I stole off the desk of the really sweet girl I work with, for an immediate post-breakfast snack.
And we can keep that between us. Thank you.
Today, I found out it can actually get worse. There are now, in fact…three things.
I walk up and take my place in line. Big cowboy dude in front of me, and his sandwich is under construction. All is good in the world.
They slide it down. He says, “OK, I need to get one more but with no cheese.”
All ain’t quite as good anymore.
The whole time, I noticed he has that phone-jack thing in his ear. That little thing you can’t see so it looks as if he’s talking to God.
Or Buddha. Or Satan. Who knows these days. And right now, who cares.
Tic-tacs and a peppermint. That’s it.
They slide it down. He says, “OK, now let me get a footlong…” and proceeds to talk to the person on the other side of the phone-jack thing. I can’t help but stare. Up a bit. And to the right. Directly at the side of his face.
Though I’m quite a bit smaller than him, I could sense his fear. He turned to me, smiled and said, “Sorry ma’am.” I just nodded and looked back at my blank stare to be reckoned with in the reflection of that big glass that protects the meatballs from the hungry public. And sneezes. And dirty kid fingers.
They slide it down. And thank you, Jesus…he slides on down with it.
I couldn’t help but listen. Or nose. Or eavesdrop. Whatever you want to call it, I was all up in his business now. Hunger ain’t THAT strong.
For that last footlong, he proceeded to ask the person on the other end of his phone-jack thing what they wanted. He went lettuce. By spinach. By pickles. By black olives. By onions. By cucumbers.
I. Kid. You. Not.
They wanted salt, but no pepper. And spicy mustard, not the plain. And they wanted it cut twice in smaller portions instead of once smack down the middle.
Again. Tic-tacs and a peppermint.
As they’re wrapping up his 74 sandwiches and he’s pulling out his wallet, he turns to me and says, “Sorry again, ma’am. But that was my wife and well…” And he shrugs.
Totally got it.
God help the man ever good enough to me to care if I want banana peppers or not. He may never rest.
But. Let me just throw this out there. If I’m picking up your lunch? You’re getting whatever I get you. You can pick off the pickles. Add more mayo. Cut it yourself.
Unless, of course, you’re good enough to me to care if I want banana peppers or not.
I’m sharing this with Momma Made it Look Easy…check out Jennifer’s blog. You will love her!