The day I've been waiting for (Part II - the morning after)

Again I drove past Bill’s Pizza at about 11:32 this morning, past the turn I’d take to get to Subway, and once again to the Hannaford Plaza for a second date with my new Spanish love; Quizno’s. Today there stood just a couple of haphazardly produced and positioned signs on the side of Route 1. The wide-grinning soda cup with the fist full of balloons was nowhere to be seen. The message has been sent. Quizno’s is now a permanent fixture in the lunchtime minds of all those who find themselves working and eating in the town of Yarmouth.

The lines were a little less hostile today as I approached my melancholy sandwich artist. That grace and enthusiasm he projected just 24 hours ago, had been severely diminished after that critical grand opening. Like a Paratrooper who had spent his first night in Normandy in a wet ditch, he was today a hardened veteran in the ills of war, or in this case – lunch. I too was in a different frame of mind on this my second trip into the belly of Quizno’s. My eyes were more focused and observant of what was simply a blur of bewilderment just yesterday. I saw past the Turkey/Bacon/Guacamole which had so blinded my attention, opting rather for a Beef Onion Dip sub. I was able to secure two menus to bring back to my fellow cubicle dwellers, and my attention was able to vacation in the less important details.

Although I haven’t studied it to any fine degree, I was able to make some superficial observations on Sandwich Artist #1’s left forearm. In a noble black ink, the tattoo appears to depict a terrible scene of death and mayhem. I think I may have noticed hooks pulled tightly from a tree through the fleshy figure of some demented and whimsical imagination. His ears are also decorated with sharp plastic thorn-like hooks. A little inappropriate for a gentleman serving various slabs of meat to Quizno’s patrons, but in tune with his apparent ‘look’; a 19 or 20 year old sandwich artist with an edgy intellect, driven to extreme bodily decoration in an effort to combat the conformity pushed on him by this ill society of Yarmouth. MTV will save his soul. I can’t say much myself as I happen to wear a permanent fixture or two of my youthful abandon.

On the other side of the toaster, there seemed to be a recurring fumble of tongs on the hot racks that ferry the sandwich from its infancy to later stages of refinement. She must be around 55 or so, and less cognitively malleable than her youthful counterparts. He eyes fill with fear of failure as each rack exits the oven. The heavyset manager looming in the background with helpful hints doesn’t seem to be helping. Perhaps she’ll find herself on a different link of the chain, as the tongs really aren’t working too well for her. Only time will tell.