2005-11-11 - 2:01 p.m.

I found 2 halfway completed diary entries from a lil while back, that were for some reason abandoned... so I'm giving them a little defibrillator love and hopefully I can remember what the F I was talking about when they were birthed.

Abandoned entry #1.

On a lighter note.

I'm a fairly relaxed person. For the most part I adapt, adjust, etc. so that any situation I find myself in doesn't inspire feelings from either extreme on the scale of emotions. That's not to say the occasional bad driver doesn't get the super finger (or SuFi for you Dane Cookians), but for the most part, I like to think that I remain calm, and, 99% of the time, refrain from complaining.

There is however, one consistent situation that I find myself in that has the potential to tip the scales either into sweet sensuous oblivion or mind-rending, teeth grinding madness. A daily occurance that has the ability, nay, the power to drag me into the seventh level of hell or exhalt me to the highest choir of angels. And in this situation, there is a single, solitary human being who sits atop this bastion of infintie power, toying with my most basic human emotions as if they were...err...well... toys.

Is it some hate mongering politician? Perhaps a fanatical spirtual leader? Or maybe even some fair-haired maiden to whom my heart is afixed?

Negatory.

It is you, Subway Sandwich Artist. And only you.

Yes, regardless of the morning of work I've suffered through, the SSA can, through a series of graceful motions and gestures, raise my charisma and constitution to levels unheard of... or send me spiraling into a neverending chasm of despair.

Yes, Mr. or Mrs. Subway Sandwich Artist, it is you, and only you who can take a bad day and either turn it into a holocaustal nightmare, or reverse it and slather my mind with rainbows and unicorns simply with the sprinkling of pickels and the narrow brush strokes of regular mustard.

Before I delve into the "how's", lets take a look at the "why's."

Why does this practitioner of a somewhat simplistic culinary art hold such power over my day-to-day mood swing? I think there are 3 simple reasons, and yes, I will list them for you.

1) Hunger: A primal urge. We find ourselves most vulnerable when we are tired, hungry, and perhaps lonely. And come noon, after having gotten maybe 4-5 hours of lonely sleep, I am most definitely hungry.

2) Timing: The lunch hour serves as the halfway mark of the work day. The metaphorical oasis in the desert of 8-5. The small window of opportunity during which we flee from our cubes and our windowless work stations and enjoy nature for a scant 60 minutes.

3) Human contact: Some of us don't get much of this at work... or if we do, we desperately try to avoid it for fear of the mundane conversation we might find ourselves in. Either way, the interaction between a SSA and their customer is critical.

So with all three of these freudian level items coming into play, it's no wonder that the SSA plays such a pivotal roll in my well being.

Here's how a subway interaction should go in my book, along with some things that have happened to me in the past that were less than stellar.

The Greeting:
In a perfect world, there is no line, and the SSA is already plastic gloved and ready to go. I walk up, and with a gentle smile they say "Good afternoon! What kind of sandwhich can I create for you today?"

This is almost never the case however. It never, EVER fails that the woman I hold the door for, the one I was going to be in front of, is the office cunt. And by cunt I mean the lady who thinks it would be cute to say "I'm going to subway, can I pick up sandwhiches for anybody?" And since she works with a bunch of lazy jackasses, they all raise their hands and via their own neon fucking Post-It! notes, they jot down the ingredients for their sandwhiches. So then she spends the next half hour shuffling the notes around, pointing at the ingredients on the list, and then the ingredients in the tubs as if she had to confirm that there really is tomato and lettuce in the bins and not some forgery of produce.

In a grocery store, if you and I are in line, and I'm in front of you with 80 items, and you're standing behind me with a fucking Snickers bar in your hand, I will ALWAYS defer my spot in line to you because I know your checkout will be instantaneous as oppossed to mine. Keep that in mind dear readers.

The creative process:
Not to be confused with the dressing of the sandwich, which we will handle next. The creative process is defined as the back and forth volley of info surrounding the basic build-up of the sub. It should be short and succinct, like so:
SSA: Style?
Me: Roasted Chicken Breast
SSA: Size?
Me: Footlong.
SSA: Bread?
Me: Wheat.
SSA: Cheese?
Me: Pepperjack
SSA: Toasted?
Me: No thanks.

See, not a word wasted, no incomprehendable jive, just good ole fasion ground-up sandwich building.

This simple exchange has been trainwrecked so many times. The worst one that comes to mind was a trip to the buisness loop 70 subway (the worst one in Como by far). My SSA was working alone and in the middle of the creative process, answered a call on his cell phone. So now he's chattin with his homie, throwin slang at me (Whatchu want up on this sammich?), and not even wearing the gloves! It was enough to make Ghandi throw out a bitch slap.

The Dressing:
Ooooh, this one can be a real bitch for both parties involved. I'm fairly simple. I just say "everything and regular mustard, please." I love veggies (you know this already) and hence I like every veggie they offer. Throw it all on my sandwich. Lettuce, tomato, cucumbers, carrots, jalepnos, banana peppers, pickels, black olives, etc... it's a friggin corneucopia of veggies just waiting to blast my colon clean. And of course regular mustard.

Buuuut. On the SSA's side, they do sometimes encounter customers who rattle off the ingredients one at a time, thinking that perhaps the SSA can't possibly remember "lettuce, tomoato, onion," if its spoken one right after the other in quick succession. Or there's the picky dresser (I.e. the fat bitch) who watches the placement of every ingredient and always says "more pickels," "thats not enough mayo," etc... Unless there's one solitary tomoato adrift on a sea of lettuce, let it be kids. The SSA usually knows what they're doing. And trust me, you aren't going to miss those extra pickles.

So on the flip side, SSA's, take your time with the dressing. We all know that 4 or 5 tomatos is perfect, so dont skimp or overload. Everyone who asks for banana peppers loves them, so don't just plop 3 down and pat yourself on the back. Be generous, it's not your fucking money that buys the veggies. You're an artist, not a minimalist.

And finally, fold the sandwich over gently, like it was a baby being wrapped in a warm blanket. We've come this far, you've decorated a beautiful sub, don't fucking ruin it by tossing the thing on its side letting the insides leak out like a gutted corpse. Be proud of your work, and make sure you give me napkins. You put alot of mustard on it.

The Checkout:
And now we've reached the end of our journey. Offer me the meal deal, I prolly won't bite, but offer it anyway. Make a casual observance about the weather and then hand me my change.

Don't launch into a personal diatribe about the last customer who was a dickhead. I was there. I saw him badger you about the extra mayo. Fight the man on your own time. I have a job to get back to and your wasting what precious little lunch time I have.

So there it is. Subway. At times a beautiful woman who caresses me in her warm doughy bossom. At other times, a crack whore who tears my heart out and sells it for another hit.

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