Today’s sandwich artist takes no guff.
One patron is on the phone, speaking loudly and colorfully about how he “might” have to “go crazy on these fools.”
The fools in question are the three sandwich artists. One of them is frozen, unable to complete the footlong sub. Another artist looks nervously at the man and his friend, who glares and repeatedly lifts his shirt to display his abs, which I suspect, are meant to be intimidating.
The third sandwich artist, the one who takes no guff, lays down the law.
“Behave or leave,” she says.
The man on the phone says he’s about to lose his mind. His friend calls her a bitch.
“Nobody calls me a b-i-t-c-h,” she says. “You two need to go. Now.”
He calls her a bitch a few more times and demands his sandwich. She tells her fellow sandwich artist to wrap it up and put it in the fridge.
“You don’t get anything because you called me a b-i-t-c-h.”
The two men leave, slamming the door. The woman turns to me and says, “Sorry about that.”
I tell her it’s not her fault, that although I entered in the middle of “whatever that was,” it was pretty clear that they were in the wrong and that she handled it well.
“You can’t just call a woman a b-i-t-c-h and expect her to make you a sandwich.”
“No you can’t,” I agree. “So I guess it’s their loss.”
“Right! Those a-s-s-holes can starve for all I care.”
I tell the sandwich artist she is my hero. As it turns out, my hero is both brave and generous, as she gives me a cookie on the house.
Leaving the Subway, I scan the parking lot for the two men. They aren’t there. Too bad, I’d love to tell those b-i-t-c-h-e-s how the cookie crumbles.