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Thursday, September 28, 2006

"White man, black woman...black baby!"
- Public Enemy


THE SUBWAY CHRONICLES

Chapter Six:

"...and three white-chip cookies, please..."


i thought i'd never have a run-in at this place. for some reason i thought they were above all that. maybe it's because of all their vegetables instead of those rolling clouds of grease, maybe it's the confusing name of the joint. i don't know. but i feel i should call it "The Subway Incident" instead, since i thought it was the only episode of its kind, but you know what? you rewind the tape far enough, you'll see that there's enough little crimes commited under those baseball caps throughout my visits (stale bread, rotten tomatoes, closing early) to warrant a place under the title "Chronicles." apologies to the people that got an earful of this story already at the grad school party. so here's what happened:

i had been eating the same Wendy's turkey-and-swiss sandwich every day for about two weeks before i bit into one of those and there was so much mayonaise that it burst from a crack in the bun and filled my mouth like i was in a gay porn. that was so gag-worthy that i still shudder when i think about it, so i had to go further down the road on my lunch break for some new food. and i don't like doing that. i like expending as little thought and time as possible on my lunch so that i can try to get some reading or writing done before i have to go back to typing. and it's tough finding something decent within a reasonable distance. it's like that episode of "Magnum P.I." when they're in T.C.'s helicopter and they keep watching the gas gauge to allow them enough time to fly back or else they'd crashland in the jungle and turn on each other like "Lord of the Flies" in nine minutes, 7 seconds like people in movies usually do.

but there it was! connected to a drive-thu beer outlet (warning sign?) a Subway sub shop happily waiting for my money. not too much time left, so i'm almost running through the door and, shit, there's a line. but wait, i look and it's not really a line. it's like five kids somewhere around 9, 10, or 11 years old, just kind of wandering around the counter chattering to each other like kids do. two are getting food, the rest are just fucking around and wasting time. i start to get annoyed with them because i'm in a hurry, but i'm fighting the urge. not because these children are black (that detail is very important later, however) but because i have found that if i make an effort to only get angry at people who get angry at people in situations like that (like the inevitable "tssk"ing, pinch-faced old bitches who wish to Christ they could discipline someone else's crying child) i discover that i'm much more tolerant of kids jackassing around.

or, at the very least, i've found that by only getting mad at people who get mad at people, i cut down on the people that irritate me by at least half.

so i'm watching these kids change their minds twelve times about their sandwiches and inching forward at starfish's pace. but no one's there to be mad at these kids but me, so my impatience starts to focus on them. i finally get to order my food, way later than i'd hoped, and just as i'm gritting my teeth because of this constant swirl of giggling and activity around me at the register, something happens that changes everything. i'm asking for a cup to get some ice water, and the guy behind the counter says (kind of laughing because he just said the exact same words to one of those kids): "you get your ice at the machine, and we'll get your water back here." i'm like, "oh, okay. whatever," and right as i turn around, one of the little girls in the mob says to me,

"you want me to get your ice for you?"

i'm shocked and pleased by this. when i thought about it later, i figured that the "you get the ice, we'll get your water" policy was probably created because people kept getting whatever drink they wanted for free. so maybe she's used to the indignity of not being trusted at a frigging faucet, or maybe she felt bad about how long they took to get their food in front of me. point is, i'll never know why she did it because i was like, "yeah, okay." and she's quickly filling my cup up with ice and handing it back with a smile and then she's gone. suddenly i'm in a great mood, all my anger at these little punks has vanished completly.

"thanks!" i say. and i really meant "thanks." that's one of those random acts of kindness, goddammit. i'm in such a good mood that i decide to get some cookies, too. what the hell, why not? i can eat all this food on the frantic drive back to work. when i need to be, i'm like an octopus eating and driving and changing cds at the same time.

"and give me three of those cookies," i declare, pointing to the case.

"you mean the chocolate chip ones?" the dude asks.

"no, the white chip ones. the ones with the nuts in them." i say proudly.

and even though i don't know these guys, i want to laugh and share the irony of the contrast of my earlier irritation with the kids to my racially-charged choice of cookies. but, of course, none of that shit sounds rational out loud, and my mood's gonna change real fast. all the kids are now outside, and the bell on the top of the door has finally quieted down, and suddenly there's a charge in the air behind the counter. there's one guy in a red shirt behind the two in the green shirts, and i can see the wheels turning in his head as he debates whether to make some smartass comment about those kids. looking at me, somehow he must be trying to guess whether i'd appreciate a joke, and i can see him getting up the courage to open his mouth. oh shit, i'm thinking. please don't let one of these assholes make some racist comment about those kids. i keep forgetting that this state is ass-backwards a lot of the time when it comes to that subject. and i know it's coming. it's like an audible turbine whine building in the air around us. i just want to get my change back fast so i can get my food out of there before someone says something racist while smiling at me like i'm in on it. that would ruin my lunch. seriously. especially after that little girl got my ice for me.

i've finally got my change in my hand and turning around when the fucker says it.

red shirt: "the funny thing is, they all probably have kids of their own!"

i glance back and he smiles at me. of course he does.

motherfucker. i barely have time to eat this sandwich in my car on the way back because of how much time it took to get it, and now i'll be bothered by this for the rest of the day. is it because i'm some civil rights crusader? no. it's because that kid got me ice cubes.

i sit down and unwrap the sandwich at one of the tiny wobbly tables. you ever eat in a Subway? it's like eating on a real subway. i don't really think you're supposed to eat inside the place. it's way to small. you're all scrunched up on a square the size of a postage stamp, staring directly at the staff the entire time. i force myself to do this while i eat my turkey sandwhich because i figure by the time i get to the cookies, i'll be angry enough to actually say something to the guy in the red shirt. i figure if i don't say something by the time my sandwhich is finished, i'm a complete pussy who is afraid of three idiots in matching baseball caps. and what's up with those caps anyway? i stare at them while i eat. they look like the sorriest baseball team in history. all soft and pasty, covered in food stains. what kind of team is covered in fuckin' food stains? i'm trying to imagine the Subway baseball team running onto the field and it's making me laugh. i have to concentrate to get angry again. and i can hear that they got a TV in the back. every so often the dude in the red shirt goes back to watch some game and comes back and comment on it. i'm thinking, "look at you with your mustard stains on your shirt and your stupid fast-food cap. you never played a sport in your life. why are you watching one?"

and what's up with that red shirt? does that mean he's a manager? was there such confusion telling the manager apart in the Wall Street pandamonium of a typical Subway afternoon? is it so hard to slowly make a sandwich on a conveyor belt without color-coding the three employees? maybe if you get three whole orders going at once, they bump into each other too much and start getting confused about whose sandwich they're on. maybe if there's four subs going, they need to call for backup and have two red shirts, two green shirts, and then they alternate the sandwiches, assigning them odd and even numbers so that all hell doesn't break loose back there.

wait. nope. he's the manager. one of them just asked him if he had to count something. "red shirt" does mean manager. anyone remember what it meant on Star Trek?

i'm down to my white-chip cookies, but i'm thinking that's way too symbolic to eat any of these cookies without saying anything. what kind of story would that make? the only food more metaphorical that i could be eating would be black olives. which, it turns out, were on the turkey sub i just ate. anyone remember that riff Eddie Murphy did on black olives? "why are the green olives in a jar and the black olives in a can? why they got to lock up the black olives?!"

i'm way past when i was supposed to be heading back to work, so i force myself up to finally say something. but they're all back in the back somwhere, watching whatever game they got on. i imagine it's a game of horseshoes. or checkers. no, probably not. probably some major league sport that's 80% black.

i stand there for a minute feeling stupid because there's no one at the counter. i jingle my keys. nothing. another minute. cough a little. nothing. eventually i go to the front door and open it and close it real quick so that the bell goes off. one of the green shirts wanders out thinking i'm a new customer.

me: "where's the other guy?"

green shirt: "who?"

me: "your boss. the one in the red shirt."

green shirt: "oh, scott? he's not the manager." he turns to yell, "hey, Scott!"

i actually can't remember his name. but we'll call him Scott for now because it's funny. it was one syllable name like that. that i do remember. but wait. now i'm utterly confused. how is the guy in the red shirt not the manager? i forget all the devastating things i was going to say by the time he comes out because of my confusion about their shirts. the green shirt goes back to the TV.

red shirt: "can i help you?"

me: "yeah. you remember those kids that were in here?"

red shirt: "yeah."

me: "you remember what you said?"

red shirt (confused): "uh, no."

me: "those kids, those little black kids that were just in here. two of which were only half-black, by the way."

i'm not sure what kind of proof i was offering with that fact. i frowned as soon as i said it.

red shirt (real confused): "what?"

me: "those kids. they were fucking around and making noise and you make some fucking comment when they left."

red shirt (face changing): "uh, nooo, i didn't say anything."

me: "yes, you did. you don't remember what you said like 10 seconds ago?"

red shirt: "it wasn't me. hold on..." turns to yell back to the missing green shirts. "Hey, did either of you -"

me: "whoa. dude. i'm talking about YOU. You're the one who said it."

a green shirt comes up to join him.

red shirt: "did you say anything to those kids that were in here when -"

me: "hey, Scott. listen to me. it was YOU who said it. how can you not remember this? you thought it was fucking funny like 10 minutes ago. you said, 'i'll bet they got kids,' or 'i'll bet their kids have kids' or something like that."

red shirt: "no, i didn't say anything."

i realize at this point that Scotty is fucking gutless. he's denying this in front of one of his boys that had laughed when he said it. how's he going to bring this up later when they're both alone? i'll never understand people that don't back their shit up. and the other green shirt must be listening, too. but he doesn't even come out of the back. gutless all. i now realize they're either scared of losing their jobs or of me, so i get up in Scotty's face. at least as close as i can over the wilting farmer's market of grey vegetables. the sweaty little bastard smells like a combination of onions and ass. now, i know they work with onions all day, but i don't see an "ass sandwich" on the menu anywhere. because i probably would have ordered one at some point. back to the story:

me: "you're going to deny that you said that shit? you make me laugh. you know, if a bunch of kids are fucking around, then get mad at them, but why do you think you can say that racial bullshit to a roomful of people (what "roomful?" okay, i was exaggerating) and it's okay?! i mean, i know we're close to the bible belt down here, but you need to join the fucking 20th century. keep that shit to yourself next time."

red shirt: (all twitchy) "i'm sorry if you thought you heard something. i would never make a racial comment -"

i violently throw my cookies away in the trash behind me in what is quite possibly the weakest civil rights prostest in the history of our country.

me: "you're going to keep telling me you didn't say anything?"

Scotty just stares at me. probably trying to figure out if i'm half black. i almost shout, "what are you looking at?! i'm German/Native American/Irish, motherfucker!" but, of course, besides that making me sound like a mental patient, it really misses the point, you know?

the three of us stand there for about a minute. Scotty starts to twitch and stutter and sweat onion rings again.

red shirt: "hey, i'm sorry that you thought you heard -"

me: "fuck that. deny it all you want. you're all scared about your job, like i'm going to tell your manager or something (as if i could ever find the fucking manager with the shirt confusion! what does the real manager wear anyway? black and white stripes? and a football helmet?!) but i could give a fuck about your job. i'm just saying something to YOU because you said that shit, and you're such a pussy, you make a joke and can't back it up."

red shirt: "i don't know what you're talking about."

this is all so completely unsatisfying, i can't believe it. i can't believe that i actually put my new glasses in my pocket because i thought i was going to end up grabbing someone, or someone grabbing me, over a counter. i guess that's why they always say, "deny, deny, deny." gutless as it is, it really gives the other person no room to maneuver.

i turn around to leave.

me: "watch your fucking mouth next time."

weak, i know. but that's all i could say. nothing in the bag. out of ideas. late for work. nothing left in the tank. but, at least the kids weren't there when i said all that, i think to myself as i drive back. saying everything after they left makes it more noble, i tell myself. because it wasn't some kind of grandstanding, you know? but, of course, i'm talking about it right here, right now, so i'm a complete hypocrate. anyway. while i'm admitting to you how unsatisfying that encounter was, i'll add three more points to make my motivations even more suspect.

first: i keep saying i wanted to say something to that guy because that little girl got me ice cubes. i honestly think it had more to do with the fact that i was in the middle of typing the captions for "The Tuskeegee Airmen" that day at work.

second: halfway through the turkey sandwich i knew that no matter what happened, of course i was going to say something, simply because it would make a good story. and that shit's easier than actually standing up for something.

and third: i didn't throw away all three cookies. i quickly ate one before i got up from the table.

::: david - 3:07 PM [+] :::
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