a sub, a girl, a(n) (en)counter

I stumble through my order as the sandwich-maker -

Is that the term? -

smiles knowingly at me.

I’ve been caught.

the hostile corridors of a suburban Publix presented a futile battle.

my mother shouldn’t have sent out the rookie.

Yes, I would like garlic pickles.

Could I have olives too?

WAIT.

THESE ARE CHICKEN TENDERS.

OLIVES AND CHICKEN?

ABORT ABORT.

There’s no going back

once the sandwich has been started.

 People corner from all sides

The hordes of angry citizens craving the sub of the week crowded around me that faithful Wednesday afternoon.  I hazily remember saying please after every topping I asked for once I messed up with the olives, but not much else. Making sandwiches presented an odd part of American culture, one that I wasn’t used to. I grew up being told to respect my elders, but somehow I was asked to make a grown man make a sandwich for me? The patriarchal irony, while not lost on me, still felt immoral.

My parents sheltered me growing up, so American hostility during sub rush-hour never struck me as concept. I’ve learned since then to place my order ahead of time - if I can - and avoid the unnecessary drama with ordering in stores. Someone else might have conquered their fears and perfected their order in store, but I’ll stick to ordering Chinese takeout and never facing a sub-maker ever again, thank you very much.