Just to preface this, I’m not complaining about either a) the food at Subway or b) the employees. Anyone who feels the need to bitch at me for my choice of lunch fare or feels the masses of fast food employees need a savior, kindly fuck yourself.
Alright, I had errands to run on my lunch hour today, so on my way back to work, I stopped by Subway. The drive-thru line was full, so I parked and went in to order. My amazing streak of luck, so prevalent in my life recently, placed me behind two very-well dressed white collar people; very possibly they were a couple. No problem. They get the basics of their order down (i.e., what kind of sandwich they want, what bread, cheese, blah blah), and then move on to the Fixins Department. Still no problem. I order my basics, and happily move down to take my turn.
Now we have a problem.
The man seems halfway competent; all he wants is his meatball footlong microwaved. The girl behind the counter puts his sandwich in the nuke-box, and then moves on to the woman’s sandwich. The woman can’t really make up her mind about what she wants, and on top of that, she’s nearly whispering. It took the girl behind the counter four tries to get the woman’s order right, because the restaurant is crowded and the background noise drowns out the feeble voice of the woman. Now there’s 2 more people behind me, who’ve got their orders started, but are being made late because of this woman.
Things really get fun after this. The couple are a little rattled by this-they seem to think the other people in the restaurant are trying to get them; I mean, the serving wench behind the counter deliberately made the poor lady say her order four times for fun, and the people grumbling behind her obviously mean to revolt at the drop of a guillotine. They shuffle off to the Payin’ Department. I rattle off my order quickly and at an acceptable voice level, and move to follow the Lord and Lady. It’s obvious now that their little jaunt among the commoners isn’t quite going as famously as they had hoped. Obviuosly, this “fast food” so popular with the serfs is fraught with danger and pitfalls for the unwary.
Down at the cash register, the hilarity and madcap hijinks continue. Remember the meatball sub in the microwave? It’s still in there. The woman working the cash register hasn’t been paying attention to who’s ordered what, because she’s getting slammed with a lunch rush. I don’t fault her in the least. She picks up my sub, obviously a 6 inch, and starts to put it on the counter. And so the Revoltion is sparked.
Fluster and paranoia grip our nobles. They start looking around like they’ve never seen a fast food worker get an order wrong. Panic sets in, and they frantically look for help from anyone. Not wanting to waste anymore time on my already dwindling lunch hour, I speak up and tell the woman at the register that, no, in fact the 6 inch she has is mine, and that their other sandwich is still in the microwave. At this point, the obviously confounded woman looks at me with fear and confusion in her eyes and, with a straight face, asks me if I was ahead of them.
Obviously, her fear has become magnified because it’s just become apparent that the rebels are being led by a wizard who can bend the laws the space-time continuum and order a sandwich before them, yet end up behind them in line! I tell her that, in fact, I am not in line before her.
Her husband’s having an economic crisis with the woman at the register; he’s never had to utter the dreadfully plebian words “combo” or “value meal”, let alone grasp the concept behind them, and he’s lost. After 2 rounds of explanation that, indeed, the commoners are not trying to defraud or trick them with this “combo” nonsense, he just stares blankly at the cashier and mumbles, “Whatever’s the best deal.” Sensing the rabble is reaching a breaking point, his wife eyeballs me and huddles closer, lest I unleash some fey incantation and turn her into a toad or an ass or something.
Grabbing their food and cups, they hurry away in an effort to reach their BMW before the mob takes up their pitchforks and torches against them. The three women behind me just shake their heads and mutter as the couple leaves. I grab my meal and pay, then head out the door and back to my job so that I can continue to contribute to the tax base that supports these people. Just another day on the fief.
