I went to Subway the other day for my daughter – Subway the “sandwich store”, not subway the “underground transportation system” (in that case, I would’ve said “the” subway, but maybe you are not so good with grammar). My daughter was hungry for roasted chicken on whole wheat, and I’m a really nice person. That’s why it happened.
Anyway, when I went inside – a little reluctantly because I’m not a big fan of fast food places even if I’m NOT the one eating the crap – there was a short line of four people (including me), and two staff working behind the counter making sandwiches.
The man at the front of the line asked for three BLT’s (bacon, lettuce, tomato), two toasted, one not – emphasis on the “one NOT” because that is where the problems began. The Subway sandwich maker girl person employee – a young woman by the name of May – assembled the two toasted sandwiches no problem, and was all set to put together the not-toasted one, when her brain operations seemed to grind to an unfortunate halt.
She cut the bun fine, and even put on the right cheese – not such a difficult task when you only have three options – but then she grabbed for some bacon (raw) and went to put it on the bread. “I think you should cook that first, don’t you?” said the man who’d made the order. He looked at her like the was some sort of wild animal.
Stunned, May stopped and looked blankly down at the counter. I think the man had thrown her off at the beginning by saying, “I said ONE of these sandwiches is NOT toasted” about five times. Now, poor May didn’t know what to do. She was stuck, raw meat dangling in mid-air, a line of hungry customers starting to shuffle impatiently on the opposite side of the glass. She was definitely holding up progress. “I know, I’m being a real pain in the ass,” said the man, obviously aware of her discomfort but not his own asininity. And I thought, yes, yes you ARE being a real pain in the ass, mister. Just let her put on the raw goddamn meat. It will save us a LOT of time here, so what if you get salmonella. It’ll serve you right for being so picky.
In my estimation, this whole “Subway” gig must’ve been a new job for May. Sure, she was slow, but from what I’d witnessed in the thirty seconds before she turned into a zombie, she was also one of those individuals who counted condiments – and only NEW or VERY ANAL Subway sandwich makers count condiments. I mean, who really gives a shit how many tomato slices a person gets? If it were me, about three weeks working for such an establishment, and I’d be looking for an excuse to get fired.
I could almost hear the manager’s instructions. “No May, on a foot long sub, you don’t just put on a handful of pickles. You put on four – ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR – one for every three inches of bread, maximum. If the customer is a whiny bitch and asks for more, give them five. Not six. Not seven. Certainly not eight, nine, or ten. You put on ten – and I find out – you’ll be flipping goddamn burgers at McDonald’s.” It was the same with olives. May handed those out like a sociology professor hands out A’s – very stingily. Strange though, she didn’t seem to have a problem being generous with the onions. Who knows why? Like a ton of onions makes for a great sandwich. It must’ve been to make up for the lack of other toppings. No doubt, she felt bad. Also, onions must be cheaper than pickles, olives, and tomatoes.
After all the “I need a BLT NOT toasted” drama, there was poor May – petite little frail little slightly lazy-eyed May (like that helped to make her look like she knew what she was doing) – who didn’t know that putting raw bacon on a un-toasted BLT was simply NOT the way the world works. Heck, if she’d gotten away with it – and someone had actually gotten food poisoning – Subway could’ve been sued. And Subway’s CEO would’ve had to call in one Subway manager in particular for a little chat: “How did this happen? Don’t you train your staff? Which one of your incompetent people put raw meat on an un-toasted bun, costing me millions?”
And it would all come back to May, because her workmates would sell her out – in reality (though some may pretend different) nobody really cares about anybody but themselves. “May did it,” they would all say. “SHE was culprit who put the raw bacon on the sandwich, and SHE was the one to make that person deathly ill. The rest of us are smart.” It’s a known fact: the newest person on the job always takes the shit.
So what happened to May? Did she ever recover? Nope. After about a thirty seconds of her standing there looking confused, a tall boy with red hair came out from the back and literally stood on top of her. He microwaved the bacon with the finesse of a professional bacon-microwaver, and proceeded to assemble that man’s sandwich the correct way, the way ALL BLT’s (not toasted) should be made.
To be honest, it was like May disappeared into thin air. For all I know – under that boy’s crushing weight (it looked like he marginally worked out if only to get “pumped for the chics”) – May ended up slumped in a heap on Subway’s floor (Hunt Club location), where she lays to this day, covered in scraps of shredded lettuce, the odd olive (because those are NOT to be wasted) and drips of sub sauce, which I’m told by my kids is really just Italian dressing.
When I got home and shared with my daughter what happened – because I was getting HER the sub (she wasn’t with me); she was at home likely roiling from the angst of having to write a philosophy essay AND breathing – she said yeah, it’s weird in there. She said the last time she visited, there was a woman asking for quadruple the napkins – two for each side of each half of her sub.
And then there was the time that guy tried to get the “Wednesday” special on a “Thursday” because he didn’t eat chicken so how was he supposed to “abide by the rules”? And someone should allow for his “specific needs, or else he was going to go ballistic”.
Now, maybe it’s because I’ve seen too many episodes of Westworld, or maybe it’s because Donald Trump has been elected president of the United States (Jesus Christ), or maybe it’s because California is going to run out of water in one year (YIKES – don’t let those people come to Canada), or maybe it’s because David Bowie and Prince died in the same year (as if), yes, maybe it’s because of ALL of those things that I question who on this planet is a robot (and rebuildable should they get shot in the face), and who is a real live, flesh and blood human. All I know is, if that happens to me (I get shot in the face), I hope I’m more on the “I’m metal-on-the-inside” type of person, and when they are fixing me – back in the “drawing room” – that they give me slightly “better” boobs. And by “better”, I don’t mean “bigger” like Dolly Parton’s, I mean “perkier” like Jennifer Aniston’s. Push-ups only do so much.