I am behind the counter of a famous sandwich shop franchise, inside of an even more famous grocery store chain. The patron of the arts stands on the other side of the glass, able to scrutinize my every move. There can be no revenge spit in this Panopticon. 

I ask the first in a long list of questions to come:

“6 inches or footlong?”

When a group of teen boys is present, the response is hyena-like snickering. 

This is the golden era of $5 footlongs (before the lawsuit revealing they are actually a few inches short) so naturally, they go with a footlong. 

Onto the next question. 

“What kind of bread?”

They will inevitably ask about our selection, and I will point to the sticker displaying images of bread directly in front of them. They are upset. I am upset. 

Once we establish which kind of yoga mat-textured bread to supply as the canvas, the patron must decide which sandwich they want. They can have it their way, but what path will they choose?

They might go with what they feel is the safe route, turkey and cheese. If only they themselves could have peeled the airtight plastic wrap and smelled the lunch meat’s chemically pungent aroma firsthand, they might realize that no path is safe. 

The fearless choose tuna. I dread how soon I will need to make a new batch, squeezing a gallon-sized bag of thick mayo into a vat of upsettingly warm fish meat. Then, I stir, creating a cacophony of wet squelching. 

The truly deranged will ask for the Seafood Medley. I turn my head, scanning for witnesses. I whisper, “That one is not allowed here anymore.” 

If the benefactor is a real asshole, they’ll go with a Double Meatball Sub with extra sauce. The customer plays the part of Icarus, except it is I, the sandwich artist, who will pay the price of their hubris. The yoga mat will gradually absorb the lava like tomato sauce, and disintegrate before ever touching their lips. 

Now: “What kind of cheese?”

The same ordeal plays out. I point to the sticker of cheeses directly next to the bread sticker. 

“Do you want this toasted?” A certain type of individual will snicker once again, in a way that suggests only they get the joke. Only they could possibly understand. I get the joke. I also get it. Life is long and cruel. We must appreciate euphemisms wherever they find us. 

The toaster oven is not safe. Many an artist has burned themselves in the kiln. There is no avoiding it. The plastic, transparent gloves will melt to the skin. Our hands are a gallery, displaying burn bubbles and knife wounds, a rotating display. But sandwiches taste better with melted cheese, so it is a necessary sacrifice. 

After we have survived the toasting, it is time for more decisions that the benefactor may or may not be ready to make. There is a rainbow display of drying, wilting vegetables and more condiment options than dollars I make in an hour. 

The meatball aficionado will likely ask for double everything, including the sauces. I will quietly put a fork in their bag. They will ask me why and I will say, “You’ll see.” 

But we’re not done yet. There are more choices to be made on this path of self discovery that only a sandwich shop that used to be a Nathan’s hot dog stand can provide. 

There are beige meat links, rotating under the same sun lamp, in the same space, for eternity. There is a popcorn machine. There is an ICEE machine that drips and whirs with an unending rage. The customer must also choose chips or a cookie. They must choose a drink size. The burden of choice is unrelenting. I think they’d almost be happier without it. 

Once the process is finished, they return with their work of art, to a cart full of groceries, victorious.