So That Happened

I was standing in line at Subway. It was a long line; I'd been in it for quite a while.

I hate lines... even for things that don't suck. So just imagine how I felt about that particular line. That's right... it was like the Sarah Jessica Parker of lines. That line was my personal enemy. That never-ending march through Hell toward a Purgatory of broken dreams and soggy onions... that was my forty days in the desert. That was my Exodus... 'cept, you know, I didn't get anywhere and I wound-up with just a crappy sandwich and a flat Mountain Dew.

While I was a good little lemming and followed the others through the maze of plastic chains and chrome-plated stanchions, the guy behind me was plodding along, and barking non-stop into his cell phone.

He was a man of principle. "MOP," for our story, okay? I know he was a man of principle because he told me... well, told us... well, announced it repeatedly to the rest of us in line while he debated the merits of Mickey's Big Mouth, decried the demise of this year's pro hockey season (it's "fucked-up," I learned), and deconstructed professional lacrosse (it's "fucked-up," I learned) with his cellular confidante.

I finally got my turn at the shiny plastic oasis that was the order counter. I ordered my sandwich: pastrami on sourdough, toasted. I like 'em toasted... they're so... so delightfully toasty... aren't they?

The kid at the counter nodded; dutifully sliced my sourdough open, and pushed it on to the next slack-jawed counter-agent (yeah, like Don Adams... but with acne) who took care of the rest with mindless efficiency.

Meanwhile... behind me, the next train on the Subway line derailed in Sensurround splendor....

"Welcome to Subway, sir! What kind of bread would you like?"
"No, I didn't say he kill-- hang on," MOP sighed into his phone.
"Bread sir?"
"What's that one?" MOP asked, pressing his thumb against the greasy plastic partition.
"Italian."
"Yeah, I want that one."
"Oh, we're out. Sorry," the counter-agent said, sneaking a peek at the lengthening line.
"Then what's that one?"
"Asagio."
"Kewl.... gimme that."
"Sorry, we're out."
MOP groaned into his phone: "They're fuckin' out of bread... what? She said that?"
"Sir?"
"Look, give me what he got, a'ight?" MOP waved a hand at my freshly-toasted sourdough.
"Yes sir... ummmmmmmmm, so what kind of sandwich did you want sir?"
"That one... turkey, ham and bacon melt."
"Yes sir!"
"Is that hot?"
"The sandwich, sir?"
"Yeah, the sandwich... is it hot?"
"It's toasted, sir; the cheese is melted."
"So it's hot, right?"
"Yes sir... it's hot."
"A'ight."

By this time I'd moved on to the produce. I'm easy when it comes to produce: the less the better. Lettuce is fine; tomatoes are okay when I forget to say "Oh! No tomatoes!" I can pick them off... I don't even mind. You know why? 'cause I'm easy when it comes to produce... did I mention that?

While I'm noticing that I forgot to say "Oh! No tomatoes!" my brother-in-line has a new question about his sandwich....

"What's in that?" MOP asked, pointing at his open face sandwich.
"In your turkey, ham and bacon melt sir?"
"Yeah. What's in that?"
"That, sir. Turkey, ham and bacon."
"Is there pork in that?"
"There's bacon, sir."
"Is there pork in that?"
"In... in bacon sir?"
"Yeah."
"It is pork."
"Yeah, I can't eat that."
"Bacon?"
"Pork."
"You can't eat bacon?"
"Or pork."
"Sir, bacon is pork."
"Then take it off."
"Yes sir."

I tried to linger at the register; I wanted to hear how their subsequent produce transaction went... but it's a well-oiled machine there at Subway... once my sandwich was sheathed in paper and plastic I was sent on my way faster than cocaine balloons through a two-year-old terrier's large intestine.

Looking back, I realize that then... at that moment? That's when I lost hope for civilization.

Now? Now I'm reminded of Ken Kesey's immortal words: It's the truth even if it didn't happen.