Subway Saga

So, I used to go to a particular Subway in Tucson. And, without fail, I would always get this one guy behind the counter who did not know how to make a veggie sandwich (or any sandwich) properly. They were impossible to eat without spilling everywhere because he would make them in such a way that it did not close properly. It's not that he put more veggies in it, it's more to do with how he placed the veggies inside the bread. I know that I'm not making much sense. I wish I could illustrate this somehow. Either way, this was really frustrating. I know it sounds like a minor, trivial thing. And, I guess it is. But it's annoying because you know this guy would construct a much better sandwich if he himself were going to consume it. Anyway, I stopped going to that Subway. This was not just because of the Incompetent Sandwich Artist, but also because the veggies were always kind of wilting and one time I got a look into the kitchen and decided never to go back into that store again.

So, they remodeled the store and, seemingly, hired all new staff. So I went back. And sure enough, I've had competently constructed sandwiches several times since the re-opening. And the veggies look a lot more fresh. But, today, I walked in, and my nemesis was standing there. There were two people making sandwiches, so I calculated the chances of his being the one to make my sandwich given the people in line and the speed at which the line was moving. After realizing that it was inevitable that he was going to be the one to make my sandwich I feigned a need to return to my car, thus giving up my spot in the line and returning to hopefully have better luck.

I returned, and it appears to have worked. I get to the front of the line and the other worker asked, "What can I get started for you today?" Get started?! I thought panicking, no! You need to make the sandwich! But I said, "six inch veggie on wheat, please," with my fingers crossed. He cuts the bread, asks what cheese I would like (provolone, if you're curious), and if I would like it toasted. I say yes, and he places it in the toaster. I begin to panic as I see him remove his gloves and then head to the back. The Sandwich Destroyer moves in front of me, smiles, and then takes my sandwich out of the toaster. "What vegetables would you like?"

I think for a moment, considering if there were ways to minimize the damage, by selectively including vegetables that will not create such a mess. But I decide that compromising would just let the sandwich terrorist win. So I ask for my usual, lettuce, tomato, onion, and banana peppers and ranch dressing.

I would like to tell you, dear reader, that this time the sandwich was normal and okay. But I cannot. I watched on with horror as he piled the veggies on, and then, without closing the sandwich properly (again, I know it's not clear how he is ruining my dinner; I will draw a picture and next time I am near a scanner I will scan it in so you can see), wraps it up. I ate it, but not without considerable distress and much napkin-ing. I also lost about half of the lettuce.