4. The Sandwich Artist
If you are unfamiliar with the term, the glorious title that dubs those hard workers on the other side of the glass at your local Subway is that of the Sandwich Artist. You can imagine my frustration in having the title on future job applications. Good luck being taken seriously. There was no artistry involved, although I thought I was considerate when making the sandwiches, filling the sandwich edge to edge, not being stingy with the veggies, you get the deal. I made it how I'd like to have it made for me. I learned a lot of muscle mechanics for making subs and cutting vegetables, and I got creative with my free six-inch sub I was guaranteed for each shift. These kinds of skills helped me be slightly less helpless when it came to making food for myself.
The job wasn't all that bad, if you don't take into consideration the measly $8.00 an hour I was being paid to do it. I met a lot of interesting people while working there, and got some funny stories out of it. I would walk there, as I lived only a few blocks away. I would guard myself with my keys between my fingers, or swung with the lanyard like a Celtic slammer. I remember once walking there, deciding to take the alley as it was most direct, and coming across two homeless men ahead arguing over their dumpster territory. It was one of those eye-opening experiences that rich people don't really have, and, if they do, they look upon the people with disgust rather than sympathy. None of those men, when asked as children what they want to be when they grow up, said, "I wanna fight over my dumpster in an alley!" Yet, there they were. They didn't seem to notice me, and I just continued on my way.
I started the job on a good note. On my first day, there was no bread. Well, there was, but it was frozen dough, hardly usable. It would be several hours before we could bake it. The bread came in hoards of frozen dough, each loaf shaped into a nearly foot-long pieces the girth of a sausage. These were places in the walk-in cooler the day before, and were baked by the opener the following day. The day before today, however, they were not taken out, so I got to enjoy a nice, relaxing day of doing hardly anything. It was supposed to be incredibly busy, being along High Street near campus on a home game day. Thankfully for my stress levels, rather than running around being trained during this chaos, I was instead met with a blunt at the backdoor. It was an excellent way to build camaraderie and a warm welcome for a new team member.
The day was otherwise uneventful, and we turned away nearly everyone who wanted a sandwich. We could, however, make flatbread sandwiches and salads, so I became pretty good at making those. Then, my favorite story of working at that place, graced me with its comedic perfection.
We had made a sign for the door, simply stating, "We are out of bread." Short, sweet, and to the point— or so we thought. Eyebrows raised at the middle, head cocked, wrist horizontal, palm up, elbow glued to her waist, and forearm extended upwards at a forty-five degree angle, she sauntered in, not from a cartoon, but from the real world, just outside out doors. She was the Sherlock Holmes of her sorority, the Regina George of her high school, I was sure of it. If you've ever heard the voice, then you know. Part valley-girl, bougie white girl with an ever-so-slight lisping of the /s/, she confronts me.
Flabbergasted as I was, I was not truly surprised at the ignorance of the question. She probably had expected us to call her personally to apologize profusely, that if by chance she planned to eat at our restaurant that we deeply regret that she should suffer the inconvenience of such a profoundly upsetting ordeal as to not be able to enjoy the thawed and baked ingredients of an establishment with a renowned reputation such as ours. Regardless of our failings, we would continue, there is another establishment within a five-minute walk. Perhaps I am being too judgmental. Perhaps she just saw the sign, a jumble of strange shapes taped to the door, and she simply did not recognize any of them. I did my best to reiterate what our concise sign had failed to relay,
The rest of the shift was not otherwise noteworthy, but it would not be the only time I had a less-than-ideal interaction.
There was an incident of a rough-looking guy coming in with a bunch of quarters and trying to quick-change me. If you're unfamiliar with the term, it applies to a type of swindling in which someone tries to get change from the cashier, distracting or confusing them, and claiming that they are due more money than they came in with.
This guy came in with a bunch of quarters and asked if he could get a dollar from four of them. As I opened the drawer to put the quarters in and get the dollar, he says, "Wait, wait, gimme that dollar back, no wait gimme those quarters, hey I gave you a five dollar bill," and so on. I put the dollar back, pushed the quarters back toward him, closed the drawer and said I couldn't help him. I found myself getting confused, and the last place you want to be as a cashier is confused with an open drawer and a stranger in front of you. Of course, he got angry, I'm sure he muttered some not-so-sweet nothings about me, and left the store.
The job itself was not horrible, but the pay was. Everything starts to blend together, the slow nights of cutting tomatoes and listening to our own music on the restaurant speakers, the busy days of making a sandwich a minute. I continued working there until February of 2011, a month after starting my first waitressing job.
I'll leave you with this:
The job wasn't all that bad, if you don't take into consideration the measly $8.00 an hour I was being paid to do it. I met a lot of interesting people while working there, and got some funny stories out of it. I would walk there, as I lived only a few blocks away. I would guard myself with my keys between my fingers, or swung with the lanyard like a Celtic slammer. I remember once walking there, deciding to take the alley as it was most direct, and coming across two homeless men ahead arguing over their dumpster territory. It was one of those eye-opening experiences that rich people don't really have, and, if they do, they look upon the people with disgust rather than sympathy. None of those men, when asked as children what they want to be when they grow up, said, "I wanna fight over my dumpster in an alley!" Yet, there they were. They didn't seem to notice me, and I just continued on my way.
Celtic slammer
I started the job on a good note. On my first day, there was no bread. Well, there was, but it was frozen dough, hardly usable. It would be several hours before we could bake it. The bread came in hoards of frozen dough, each loaf shaped into a nearly foot-long pieces the girth of a sausage. These were places in the walk-in cooler the day before, and were baked by the opener the following day. The day before today, however, they were not taken out, so I got to enjoy a nice, relaxing day of doing hardly anything. It was supposed to be incredibly busy, being along High Street near campus on a home game day. Thankfully for my stress levels, rather than running around being trained during this chaos, I was instead met with a blunt at the backdoor. It was an excellent way to build camaraderie and a warm welcome for a new team member.
The day was otherwise uneventful, and we turned away nearly everyone who wanted a sandwich. We could, however, make flatbread sandwiches and salads, so I became pretty good at making those. Then, my favorite story of working at that place, graced me with its comedic perfection.
We had made a sign for the door, simply stating, "We are out of bread." Short, sweet, and to the point— or so we thought. Eyebrows raised at the middle, head cocked, wrist horizontal, palm up, elbow glued to her waist, and forearm extended upwards at a forty-five degree angle, she sauntered in, not from a cartoon, but from the real world, just outside out doors. She was the Sherlock Holmes of her sorority, the Regina George of her high school, I was sure of it. If you've ever heard the voice, then you know. Part valley-girl, bougie white girl with an ever-so-slight lisping of the /s/, she confronts me.
"UM. I saw your sign but," an elongated /ʌ/ (uh), and a beat-long pause, "I don't get it."
https://memegenerator.net/instance/81516535/nancy-drew-meme-nancy-drew-and-the-case-of-the-subway-shit
Flabbergasted as I was, I was not truly surprised at the ignorance of the question. She probably had expected us to call her personally to apologize profusely, that if by chance she planned to eat at our restaurant that we deeply regret that she should suffer the inconvenience of such a profoundly upsetting ordeal as to not be able to enjoy the thawed and baked ingredients of an establishment with a renowned reputation such as ours. Regardless of our failings, we would continue, there is another establishment within a five-minute walk. Perhaps I am being too judgmental. Perhaps she just saw the sign, a jumble of strange shapes taped to the door, and she simply did not recognize any of them. I did my best to reiterate what our concise sign had failed to relay,
She rolled her eyes, her day, week, month, irreparably damaged. She left, and I could not help but wonder where she did end up going. The glorious part of it was that I would never know."We're out of bread?"
The rest of the shift was not otherwise noteworthy, but it would not be the only time I had a less-than-ideal interaction.
There was an incident of a rough-looking guy coming in with a bunch of quarters and trying to quick-change me. If you're unfamiliar with the term, it applies to a type of swindling in which someone tries to get change from the cashier, distracting or confusing them, and claiming that they are due more money than they came in with.
This guy came in with a bunch of quarters and asked if he could get a dollar from four of them. As I opened the drawer to put the quarters in and get the dollar, he says, "Wait, wait, gimme that dollar back, no wait gimme those quarters, hey I gave you a five dollar bill," and so on. I put the dollar back, pushed the quarters back toward him, closed the drawer and said I couldn't help him. I found myself getting confused, and the last place you want to be as a cashier is confused with an open drawer and a stranger in front of you. Of course, he got angry, I'm sure he muttered some not-so-sweet nothings about me, and left the store.
The job itself was not horrible, but the pay was. Everything starts to blend together, the slow nights of cutting tomatoes and listening to our own music on the restaurant speakers, the busy days of making a sandwich a minute. I continued working there until February of 2011, a month after starting my first waitressing job.
I'll leave you with this:
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