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Saturday, February 11, 2012

Lex Luthor, Subtle Sandwich Mind Games, and Tough-to-Grasp Black Olives



Superman has Lex Luthor. Ketchup has mustard. (Sure they're rivals. They compete for the affections of the lovely Hot Dog.)

And Dave and I have Surly Asian Subway Sandwich Guy.

Our weekly trips to Subway are tainted by the anxiety of wondering what SASSG is going to do when we get there. He knows our usual time is Wednesday around 8:30, after I return home from class and don't feel like cooking dinner (not that I ever do).

It all started almost two years ago, when we first moved into our apartment. Hey, close proximity to a Subway location is one of the reasons why we chose this place. Fast food that isn't terrible for you? Sign me up.

On our first visit, SASSG greeted us with a smile. "Welcome to Subway. How may I help you?"

"Two foot longs, please. An Italian BMT on white and an oven-roasted chicken breast on wheat."

"Comin' right up." SASSG proceeded to serve up the two sandwiches, made to order, complete with extra jalapenos on the chicken, my usual request.

Now, you all know that being an El-cheapo is in my nature. (I prefer to call it thrifty.) So you wouldn't think I'd walk into a national food chain without my coupons in tow, would you? I whipped out my coupon and frequent buyer card as if from a holster and presented them SASSG at the register.

The coupon was good for half off a regular-priced sub. Note, dear reader, that despite the ubiquitous "Five-Dollar Foot Long" commercials that bombard us on a daily basis, a "regular-priced sub" is not a five-dollar foot long. It refers to any subs that are not sold for an Abe Lincoln. Both our subs happened to be fivers that month.

 Had I known this information, I could have avoided conflict with my soon-to-be nemesis.

He took my coupon, scanned it, and charged us around eight bucks for the two subs. I handed over the money and grabbed the sandwiches. Just as I spun around on my heel to head for the door I heard, "You can pay the rest next time."

I spun back around. "What?"

"You can owe me the rest next time you come in."

"What are you talking about?"
"That coupon isn't good on five-dollar foot longs. But I'll let it slide this time. Next time you can pay the rest."

Now I don't consider myself a confrontational human being. I will speak up, if necessary, but this time I couldn't speak up even if I wanted to. I was too stunned to say anything. If the coupon was no good, why didn't he just tell me? What's this business about owing him "next time"?

As we walked out the door, speechless, I slowly realized that my mistake was not failing to speak up, but rather trying to comprehend the motives of my nemesis in the first place. And it would become all too clear in our subsequent visits that SASSG was engaging us in Subtle Subway Sandwich Mind Games.

And he was winning.

On our next visit I ordered a buffalo chicken. After all, variety is the spice of life, right?

Not according to SASSG. "That's not a five-dollar foot long."

I blinked. "Okay."

"You still want it?"

"Umm...yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeees."

SASSG shrugged. "Okay, then." He looked at me as if, along with my onions and banana peppers, I had just ordered poison on my sandwich.

Dave looked at me and mouthed, "What's with this guy?" Again I was too stunned to answer. I was just hoping he wouldn't mention the money we "owed" him when we got to the register. Fortunately, he didn't.

Given the fact that we had no plans to abandon our weekly jaunt--no one stands between me and my jalapeno buffalo chicken--I decided that the next time SASSG messed with us, I was going to let him have it. What could he do? The sandwiches are made right in front of our faces, and there's no chance for him to flavor them with bodily fluids, a la Waiting.

On our next visit, I stepped up and ordered my usual. "Buffalo chicken on whole wheat, please." SASSG grabbed a loaf of wheat bread, threw it into the toaster and flipped the switch. "I don't want it toasted."

"Ugggh." He pulled the bread out. "Well, this is no good now."

"I don't care. I don't want it toasted. You didn't ask me. Why would you just assume? That was your mistake."

He made a nasty face and threw out the semi-toasted loaf. He heaved a big sigh and grabbed another. He gritted his teeth and asked me, "What would you like on it?"

I proceeded to load up my sandwich with my usual fixings, including the tough-to-grasp black olives. You should know that I hate olives, and I picked every single one of them off at home.

To this day, SASSG continues to be a malevolent presence in our life. Or at least he tries. He's good for a sideways glance or a snide comment here and there, but I think he knows he's met his match. I actually sort of look forward to our encounters with him because I choose to find him entertaining rather than intimidating.

The entertainment factor is largely due to the fact that Dave invented a nickname for him involving the words "foot long" and a euphemism for the male genitalia.

I'll leave the rest to your imagination.

Hopefully by now you're humming the "Five-Dollar Foot Long" song.