My trip to Subway

So I walk into my local Subway Restaurant and up to the counter and I ask the guy there for a foot long chicken parm sub, hold the sauce. He asks, “You don’t want any tomato sauce on it?”

I sigh. “That’s right,” I say, “no sauce please. Just chicken and cheese on italian bread.”

He gives me a “whatever” kind of look and starts making my sandwich. I grab a bag of Sun Chips and crack it open.

“Ok, you want the meal?” he asks, once he’s finished my sandwich.

“No, that’s ok, I’ll just have the soda.”

He looks around, clearly recalling that I had a bag of chips but since I’ve already finished all of them and stuck the empty bag back in the display rack, he’s not about to accuse me of anything.

So I take my sandwich and my Sierra Mist and I sit down at one of the yellow tables. I put my duffle bag on the floor and take out a big bag of Doritos, a jar of Ragu Pizza Sauce and a spoon.

Now the Doritos clearly piss the guy off, but the Ragu Pizza Sauce causes outright staring. Those of you in the alternative condiment community know what I’m talking about. The guy goes and gets the manager while I ladle sauce onto my sandwich.

So they come back and at first I can’t even say anything but the top of the manager’s head because he’s a midget. He gets some kind of step stool and looks over the counter and then HE starts to give me dirty looks too. I ignore them and eat my sandwich. After about a minute, he speaks up.

“You brought your own sauce?” he asks in an accusing yet squeaky voice.

“That’s right.” I reply and take another bite.

“What’s wrong with the sauce here?”

Now, at this point I know I should just play it cool and use my old standby line of “I have dietary restrictions”. That usually scares them off cuz it vaguely sounds like something they could get sued for. But I hate midgets.

“The sauce here tastes like it came out of your ass.”

“What did you just say?” He is one pissed-off midget. Excuse me, little person.

“The sauce here, tastes not like tomato sauce, but rather a mixture of blood and feces that has poured forth from your anus after a particularly heated bout of intercourse between you and your horse.” I say this in between bites of my sandwich.

Well apparently I crossed some sort of “line” with this guy, maybe he owns a horse, I don’t know, because he jumps off his stool and is flying over the counter, ready to kick my ass. Unfortunately for him, he slips on a discarded jalapeno, slides off the edge of the counter and lands on the ground with a thud.

I start laughing but quickly stop when I realize he’s not moving. I start to gather up my sandwich and my pizza sauce and my spoon and throw everything in my duffle bag when I pause to listen carefully for something in the distance. It’s a siren. I run for the door, dropping my spoon but freeze in my tracks when I look back quickly before exiting the building.

A tiny ambulance with lights and sirens blaring has driven out from the back room of the Subway Restaurant. This thing was maybe 3 or 4 feet high and I could see two, tiny little drivers inside it. They pulled up to the lifeless body of the manager and quickly got it. I was fascinated. I couldn’t move, I had to watch.

They checked his vital signs, administered CPR and once he was stabilized, took out a tiny, little gurney, put him on it and rolled him to the back of the ambulance. All this was done at approximately 1/3 the size of normal people. They had mini stethoscopes and everything. Once they had loaded him in, the got in the front, pulled a u-turn and drove back to the back room of the restaurant.

I stood there, dumbfounded. The employee I had first interacted with stood there too. I looked at him for some clue as to what had just happened. He shrugged his shoulders and said “Eh, he’ll be fine,” and went about tidying up the preparation area.

Since there was no longer any hurry, I went back and picked up my spoon. I got some napkins and wiped it off, all the while listening for sounds of the ambulance driving around in the back room, but there were none. It was the darnedest thing. As I walked out to my car, I shook my head and just had to laugh.

“Foreigners!”

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3 comments

  1. When Rosa Parks died, did they make her go to the back of the hearse?

    Further back than dead people usually go in hearses, I mean. Like, tied to the bumper or something.

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