The Tale of the Subway Sandwich

I decided that today would be the day that I would finally have my beloved sandwich. I threw on some pants and a shirt, and I was out the door with my mom and younger sister in tow, because what dork would buy fast food alone? We parked about a hundred feet from the building, figuring that some exercise beforehand was the best approach when dealing with Subway. As I swung open the heavy glass door of the establishment, our nostrils were bombarded with the smells of freshly baked/microwaved/thawing bread, possible meat products, and the sickly sweet scent of the cookie display cases beside the register. We weaved through the pointless railing booby-trap and stood patiently in front of the recently Windexed, plastic sneeze-guard. We were greeted with wide smiles and hearty welcomes, as we were familiar with the employees; a handful of them had gone to my school, as well.

My body was practically quivering with excitement at the very sight of all the inadequate food displayed in front of me. I couldn’t wait to get my order in, but I waited quietly as my mom and sister spoke out their sandwich arrangements. Once they had shuffled down the line, I met eyes with the employee as she asked me in the sultry voice that only a seventeen-year-old can pass off, “What sandwich do you want?”

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I spoke up boldly, dare I say, proudly, placing my order with the grace of a gazelle leaping through the tall Savannah grass. “One Italian footlong with the onion-and-teriyaki chicken,” I crooned like a baby dove, or perhaps a seagull, because my throat was really dry. “Spinach leaves, jalapeños, banana peppers, and some of the special onion sauce to go on that, as well!”

I struggled to hold back the copious amount of drool that was threatening to break through the barrier of my closed lips, looking on with wonder and awe as the delicate hands of the girl slapped the paper container of barely convincing chicken cutlets onto my thawed Italian bread. Her other hand came down hard with a handful of cheddar and mozzeralla cheese, shredded by only the finest of razor blades. Some of which were probably still in the cheese. My piece of art was then shoved along the counter towards the other toppings.

“Oh yeah,” I added, my eyelid spazzing against my cornea as I attempted a playful wink. “Could you toast this as well? I like it better when it’s…hot.”

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The employee returned my look, but with a wide grin, and slammed my sandwich into the black and greasy toaster oven with a look of pure glee. Nearly fifteen seconds pass and I’m getting anxious. What have I done?!  My darling sandwich has been in there too long! I have just brought this marvelous creation into the world and it’s now lost and alone in a pathetic excuse for a toaster oven! My heart begins to race in my chest as I struggle to read the timer on the foggy screen of the toaster. Five, four, three, two…

The timer hits one before I can leap over the counter to perform a daring rescue, and the girl slides out a toasty bundle of bread, meat, and melted cheese. The cheddar had begun its melting stage where it gains the appearance of burnt plastic. Mmmm!! I’d have to ask that employee her toasting secrets later on.

The rest of my toppings were repeated to the employee no less than eleven times–my favorite number–and our sandwiches were stuffed into their complimentary air-sickness bags. How considerate of them, thinking ahead to any customers that might be catching a plane later that afternoon! I’d have to pass on a good word to the manager of the establishment.

For whatever reason, money was exchanged, and off the three of us walked with our air-sickness bags full of nuclear bombs. We hopped back in our vehicle, and a short drive later, we were back home. I nearly knocked my Beagle into the next room with all of the momentum I unleashed with the opening of the front door. My excitement was overpowering, and I knew that I must have my prize! I unraveled the unsightly tube of crusty bread from it’s layers of wax paper, opened my jaw as wide as I could, and devoured the two halves of the foot long with just enough hesitation to allow an intake of air between bites.

It was a glorious feeling! An orgasm in your mouth, I might say. The crispy burnt edges of the bread, the slippery oils of the cheese leaking onto every other topping beneath it. It was practically an out-of-body experience. Nothing could get me down!

Jazz-hands!

…Unfortunately, about ten minutes after the sandwich had been consumed, my stomach twisted itself into a Rubix cube of knots, and my head felt like it had been filled with helium. One, two, three rumbles of my stomach were all it took to send me running to the bathroom, where I then spent the next two hours with the vicious sandwich and its contents coming back to haunt both the entry and exit points.

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Yes sir, my orgasmic meeting with my delicious Subway sandwich became a brush with food-poisoning. The perfect way to end my day. I suppose it was only a matter of time before the artificial food surpassed my iron stomach walls…There goes yet another fast-food place to go on my “Never Eat, Ever!” list. At this rate, I’ll be ruling fast-food out completely by next month.

Here’s to my asshole (literally) of a Subway sandwich.

Sincerely (and wearily),

-Sara, aka The Dyke

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