Beautiful Handcrafted Animals

So, I was downtown today and I popped into Subway to pick up a sandwich. It’s a block from my office, and they do a pretty decent job, and the six-inch turkey is the one I usually get.

Hey, it’s good for you, which is to say it’s less bad for you than most of the rest of the stuff you can get in Midtown.

Look at me justifying my lunch — let’s move on, shall we?

To give you an idea of the Subway I was in, it’s a long, thin restaurant. You go all the way to the back and then head back towards the door (you order in the back, then pay at the front). A couple years back an Indian family bought the place and everyone working there, is either a friend or a relative.

Some of them are not-so-much on the speaking of the English.

Anyway, I went in there about one in the afternoon, prime-time for the lunch crowd. I get in line and am pretty much lost in my own thoughts, waiting, when I realize the guy about three people up is making a ruckus.

He was trying to order his sandwich but couldn’t seem to work it out. He was trying to order by number, like if you go to your favorite deli and order, “the Number Six.”

Only he wasn’t ordering the Number Six — he was ordering the Number Two-Eighty.

I missed the beginning, but I expect it started our rather simply. Along the lines, of “could I have a two-eighty on wheat.” I’m pretty sure I’d have noticed if he was screaming from the get-go.

But, oh boy, was he screaming now. It was, honestly, a drop scary. He kept repeating himself, louder and louder, adding more and more obscenities (as if that was going to help).

“Two-eighty! I want a two-eighty!”

“Speak fucking English — give me a two-eighty!”

“God-fucking-dammit! GIVE ME A FUCKING TWO-EIGHTY!”

We all backed away from this character, giving him some space. I have to admit, it was confusing as hell, at first. Where was he getting this number from? Yeah, there are “meals”, but they number one through six. There’s no meal two-eighty.

The manager comes over and this guy keeps on screaming. His face is all red now and beads of sweat are dripping down his forehead.

The manager doesn’t even try to find out what’s wrong. He skips that and goes straight for, “sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, please.”

“I’M NOT FUCKING LEAVING WITHOUT MY SANDWICH.”

“Sir,”

“IT’S NOT MY FAULT SHE DOESN’T FUCKING SPEAK ENGLISH! JUST GIVE ME A FUCKING TWO-EIGHTY!”

There’s a moment there, and we were all completely captivated in it, where the manager stops, thinks a moment, seems to look around, and tells the man, “one moment, please.”

He says something to the girl behind the counter — who looks absolutely terrified — then seems to repeat himself. Her eyes narrow and she turns away, throws together a quick sandwich and hands it to the manager.

“Here you go, sir.”

The dude goes up to the counter, slams the sandwich down and — I am totally not making this up — the girl at the register says, “what do you have, sir?”

It’s an automatic response. It’s like when you’re going to the movies, or getting on a plane, and the person taking your ticket says, “enjoy the movie,” or, “have a nice flight.” What do you say? Right, you say, without thinking, “thanks, you too.” They’re not watching the movie, or taking the flight, but you say it anyway.

The dude’s left eye twitches. Once. Very softly, almost too softly to hear, he starts to say, “I have a two-eighty.” He got about to the “two” when the manager says something quickly to the girl at the register, who rings up up, takes his money, gives him his change, and sends him off.

We all just stood there, nobody talking, nobody ordering. It was like it hadn’t really happened.  Like the whole world had stopped for this moment of insanity and it wasn’t starting back up again.

Then one of the workers asks someone what they want and just like that, boom, we all click back into reality. Folks talk about what a nut-ball the guy was, how they thought the cops were going to have to come, etc., etc.

Me? I’m there on line all alone, waiting to order. I still can’t figure out where this, “two-eighty” stuff was from, so I look up at the menu, posted behind the counter.

Sure enough, there it is, right next to the turkey sandwich I was about to order, clear as day, the number, 280.

Right under the column marked, CALORIES.

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