You Look Familiar…

I went to Subway for lunch last week.  Not a huge Subway fan, but when you’re on a carb-free diet, their bread-less sammich bowl becomes a pretty good option for a fast food meal. Though the prospect of catching a food-borne illness thanks to their 86 sanitation grade was mildly concerning, I hear Salmonella is an excellent way to drop 15 pounds in less than a week.  Not sure if a couple of days locked in a bathroom will take the place of the ‘Abs of Steel’ Workout Video I’ve been avoiding since December, but it’s worth a shot.

I’m very cognizant that restaurant workers wholly detest people on diets…particularly those who need things “specialized.”  I understand it, and I never thought I would become one of “those” people. Never thought I’d get fat, either. Shows what I know.  Requesting a sandwich “without bread” in Subway is akin to asking for unsweetened tea at Bojangles. They’ve got it, they just don’t “get it.” You’re immediately branded as some sort of weirdo deviant sent by a gluten-free rights group seeking to abolish life, liberty, and the pursuit of 9-grain whole wheat. After a couple of minutes of cajoling and self-deprecation, I was finally ready to dive into my spicy buffalo chicken, spinach, black olive and banana pepper “salad.”  I can hear the drool dripping off your lips. The things we’ll do to wear a speedo again.

The lunch crowd on this day was particularly strong, so I was relegated to one of the mini-tables near the back. Within minutes, a crotchety old lady with blue hair and a surly attitude began stammering her way toward me. I had noticed her in line earlier, complaining loudly about the lack of meatballs on her 12 inch sub. The only thing restaurant employees hate more than people on diets are people that SHOULD be on diets, especially those complaining about the dearth of food on their plate.  Seems she had only received 8 measly meatballs…in her mind a pauper’s portion, given the size of the bun. And had she sweetly requested another meatball to offset that vacant bun space, I’m sure they would have happily obliged.

However, when you yell “why do you people keep gypping me on the meatballs!” to the young lady behind the counter, you’re going to get a lesson on Subway “corporate policy,” which, by the way, is 8 meatballs per 12-inch sub. In fairness, you’d be hard pressed to find any hourly employee in any profession who gives a flying frisbee about “corporate policies” until a customer starts getting all high-and-mighty.  It’s like an ace in pocket.  You wanna talk to the 18 year old manager who’s out back catching a smoke or do you want to eat a meatball sub while it’s still relatively bacteria free? That’s what I thought. Screw you and your 8 meatballs.

Apparently there is no such corporate policy on mayo, because when her sub made it to condiments the old lady started yelling “hit it again” as if she was predestined for a 5-card Charlie. The young woman behind the counter squirted that Miracle Whip like she was wringing someone’s neck and staring the old lady down with every creamy line. “Hit it again!” she bellowed.  Must have been half a bottle of mayo on that sammich.  What the old lady lost in extra meatballs, she made up for in mayo. Ha. That’ll teach’em.

As you follow this blog, you’ll find that I seem to attract these people…I’m not sure why.  Perhaps they have an app that shows my location and get points by flocking to me and checking in. It was absolutely no surprise when she plopped down at the table beside me with such force that a picture on the adjoining wall went askew. She emitted a protracted and nasally “sigh” reminiscent of an asthmatic hippopotamus.  In a moment of weakness, I glanced over. You have to glance over.  FYI – you never glance over.  Never, ever, ever. Ever.  It’s in the manual. Huge mistake on my part. A rookie mistake. I’m 44. Thought I was past this.

“Ron?” she barked at me.

I looked to my left, I looked to my right…no one else was looking at her (they’ve obviously read the manual).

“Who, me?” Gulp.

“Yeah, you’re Ronnie ain’t you?”

“No m’am,” I said graciously, quickly looking away and back down.  You see, I have this thing about talking to strange people in random places while I’m thoroughly sober.

“You sure your name ain’t Ronnie Temple?”

“Uh, yes m’am…I’m pretty sure. My name is Dan.”

Now I don’t like to give my name to strangers but since this lady questioned whether I knew who I was in the first place, I thought it best to come clean and avoid any semblance of impropriety or complicate the situation even further.

“Well damn,” she said.  “You look just like my granddaughters ex-husband, Ronnie Temple. I mean you’re the spitting image.  I swear, same hair, same eyes…”

Believe it or not, I get this a lot.  Especially with the thinning hair and the extra weight I’ve been putting on.  I guess I’m getting that “every-man” look.  I figure I’ve got at least 10 doppelgangers running amuck in Greenville.

Anywho, I learned at an early age that the best coping mechanism for uncomfortable situations was a sense of humor. I dropped the following one-liner on the old girl in a not-so-subtle attempt to add a smile to her otherwise unpleasant-seeming day…

“Really?” I asked. “This Ronnie must be one handsome looking fella, huh?”

(Ha…you see what I did there, right?  Subliminal Positive Reinforcement. Because obviously if he LOOKS like me, then he MUST be a pretty handsome fella, right? Man, I crack myself up sometimes.  I mean really, who wouldn’t get a little chuckle out of that? You guys are a smart crowd…I’m sure ya’ll get it.  )

Well, she didn’t.

“Nope,” she said.

“More like the ass-end of a mule.  But damn if you don’t look just like him.”

~dso