No, not the subway. Subway. As in the sandwich shop.
I’m serious.

If you’ve ever visited one of these during the work week’s peak lunch hours, you know what I’m talking about. It’s straight up bananas.

I had no idea what the hell I was about to get myself into when I forgot my lunch today and decided to join my fellow frugal co-workers.

“Five. Five Dollah.  Five Dollah Foot Longs!” we chanted down 42nd street. I was feeling good. Feeling bold. Who’s going out for lunch today? THIS GIRL.

FOOD TIIIIIIMES!

No I don’t want your silly flier sir (slaps the hand), for I am NOT a tourist. Do I look like a tourist?! Of course I like comedy shows; what kind of a question is that? I hate you so much. Jesus, why do these people move so slowly? I hate these people. Arrest is the only reason not to tornado punch my way through this field trip – why the hell would you bring children here? MOVE YOUR ASS, KIDS.

I was clearly hangry, for I would never think those things with stable blood sugar. (That’s a lie. I think this all day, everyday.)

The intoxicating aroma of baking bread signaled we were nearing our destination. Yussss. The length of the line wasn’t even a deterrent, because it looked like it was moving pretty fast. This shit is AWN.

We made our way to the back and commenced with the office gossip.

Soo, this is where it gets tricky. Evidently my friends didn’t realize I hadn’t stepped foot in a Subway restaurant in, like, five years. Let alone a Subway in Times Square. Turns out the hiring requirements for these “sandwich artists” involve previous experience in guerrilla warfare.

I’d never noticed their uniforms before now. Christ.

I’m chatting away, not paying too much attention , and before I know it the tense little woman at the bread wall was demanding information.

“Uh, oh! Hi there…well, can I uh…um T-T-TURKEY!” Whoa. Cool out lady. We’re all friends here.

“Oh, uh, no cheese. That’s right, no cheese.  Oh! Uhh, wheat, uh oh ummm, jeez, 9-grain oat whatever…” oh shit, I can’t think!

“No, not toasted…” shit, I wanted it toasted.

“Uh, yes, uh foot long…” LADY, QUIT YELLING AT ME!!

I looked to my friends for support, but they shot me the ‘what’s your deal Gimeno, don’t you know how this works?’ look, and actually got annoyed I was holding up the line.

What a bunch of mother fucking traitors.

I responded with my ‘NO, you assholes, I don’t know how this works. Y’all know I’m too cheap to go out for lunch, and crowds of three or more give me the pit sweats. Why did you dickfaces bring me to the gates of hell for food?’ look. Please refer to diagram below…

Da fuck?

The guy in front of me gave a little snicker-n-snort.

Yo. Shut up.
I bet you got a huge boner throwing out your order without batting an eyelash because you come here four days a week and get the same damn thing. And I bet you wear those pleated Dockers every damn day, too. You think you’re better than me? Sporting that ID badge around your neck and sunglasses on top of your $11 Great Clips buzz cut you’ve gotten every other week for the last 27 years. You think you’re better than me??? Smug douche.

…Is what I would have said to him.

But I’m a lady.

“Uh, yes, lettuce, tomato, um, shit…that (what the fuck are those??), yes, um, a tiny bit of mayo -TINY BIT, Jesus, okay, yeah, thanks…” Good Christ, my pits are like kiddie pools.

And here I thought it was a promo for their spicy chicken, but NOPE, we’re actually in hell.

Hands were flying everywhere; a cyclone of bread, cheese, sweet peppers, pink chipotle sauce, oregano, and yelling. So much yelling.
I had no idea what the shit I’d even ordered as I paid, nor did I care. I needed air…

I was deathly silent on the walk back to the office.
My buddy from Boston busted my balls hard, slapping his four fingers on the opposite palm, “Ya gotta be ready, Kansas, awn the ball, know what you wahnt when you step foot in that establishment.”

Gawwwddamn.

All of the feels

I’d been beat down. Dignity slaughtered. Pride pummeled.

Owned by a mother fucking Subway.

I’d never been happier to see my desk, not to mention I was about to faint from starvation. Whatever was in this wrapper was going to be hoovered in a matter of minutes, but I had to stop to admire the shit storm I actually purchased once revealed.

My sandwich cradled the most ass-backwards medley of 42 black olives, a couple of sweet peppers, a slice of cucumber, some rando piece of bacon I didn’t ask for, a lettuce explosion, three tomato slices stacked in a pile, and a little blob of mayo – Like a salad shooter barfed all over my limp 9-grain honey oat sourdough whatever.

Sandwich artist my ass.