Ordering a Sub

*
The small, tarnished chime sounded – ping! - as the door whooshed shut behind me on its pneumatic elbow. Entering the Subway, I was the first customer. I know this because I had watched the short, aging hippie flip the deadbolt open for the day after giving me a scrutinizing appraisal through the glass. As though I was a suspicious character of dangerous motive. I must have passed his test, because after that first look, he flashed me a wide, off-kilter grin.

“Just a moment, man. This’ll be the freshest sandwich you’ll ever have,” he proclaimed. He proceeded to switch on various overhead lights and display signs. The warm, yeasty smell of baking submarine bread drifting around the restaurant reminded me somehow of beer. I couldn’t really have one of those - I was on lunch break; early, in fact - 11 o'clock. A dusty sunbeam slanted through the front window, and the day’s virgin newspaper lay folded neatly on the counter. Finishing his quick opening ritual, he clapped his elvish hands together.

“Okay, what’ll it be, dude?,” he asked. The lopsided grin was still there, and I had a feeling it would be there for anyone as he attempted to hide his contempt for his job. His small eyes glinted ferally beneath the bill of his cap.

“Pizza sub, 12-incher, on Italian, extra cheese,” I rattled. As a veteran sub eater, I knew all the pertinent information to provide up front. I knew guys like these got tired of prodding the customer at each step of the process: “On what bread? How long? Cheese?” And so on.

The sub jockey cackled. “Hey, I’m a 12 inch Italian myself,” he said. How many times had he recited that joke, I wondered. I was sure for him it was as automatic as saying, "fine, thanks." He grabbed the bread, and turned to apply the toppings.

“So, extra cheese…,” he wondered aloud. He looked up at me with another speculative look, and the cracked grin resurfaced. “You know what, man? There’s lots of fat in this cheese. But our bodies need fat. This will thicken you up.” He laid the triangles of cheese atop the salami and continued. “If you were in the wild, man? You could live off a block of butter for a month. Your body converts the fat into useable sugars and energy so you can live. That’s why we have kidneys, man. To process this stuff. I mean, we need protein and all, but we just piss it all out. But fat?,” he paused reflectively. “Fat we can store, and you’d be in good shape after a month.” He finished putting the toppings on and looked at me expectantly, mouth working. I could tell he was waiting for a comment, and I realized this must be a game he plays daily: Freak Out the Customer. He wanted to appear strange, so I’d tell my friends about the far-out Subway guy I happened to bump into that day. It made him different.

“That's true enough,” I said. “Also, if you attempted to live off of a rabbit in the wild, you would starve to death in short order. Rabbit meat contains mostly protein – the kind you’d 'piss away' – and less than 1% fat. You would probably be immobile under a bush after 3 weeks, unable to hunt down the meat that was failing to sustain you.”

My answer wasn’t part of Hippie Sub Man’s routine. He stared, now motionless above the sandwich. “How…how did you know that, man? Nobody knows stuff like that,” he murmured wonderingly. In an instant, I had cruelly ripped apart his disguise to reveal a mostly stupid person who had memorized an obscure fact or two in order to randomly recite them in an attempt to look like an innovative weirdo. He wasn't unique. He was no different from the guy I saw drinking Listerine every morning on my way to work.

I decided to up the ante. In my very best Schwartzeneggar voice, I quoted the Terminator: “I know everything,” I paused, unblinking. “I want my sub hot,” I snarled, the Austrian accent garbling the command. The order put Hippie Sub Man back into his place. I was the Alpha Weirdo in this restaurant.

“Sure, sure! Sorry, man!,” he stammered. He jumped to perform my demand. “Man - I have to tell you. You are totally on my team, man. I need guys like you out in the woods,” he babbled. He looked only at the floor, unable to make eye contact. He rang up my sandwich on the register, $7.29, and handed me my change.

“Some other time,” I replied robotically. Leather jacket creaking, I snatched my lunch from his paw and marched heavily out the door as the second customer of the morning entered. Get out of my way. I am the Terminator, a deadly submarine-eating cyborg.

“What’ll it be, man? This’ll be the freshest sandwich of the day,” I heard him begin.