Random Memory: Circa 1993

When I was in college, I worked at a sub sandwich shop that was just across the street from campus. Not only did I work there, but it was also there that I ate nearly every lunch and dinner for about nine months. (Delectable sandwiches for half-price? Who can argue with that?)

Unfortunately, I was not the best "subber".

There are some things that I'm just not good at and remembering that there are to be NO onions on the double cheese pastrami, but EXTRA onions on the turkey/avocado (even when the instructions are written down right in front of my eyes) is one of them, especially at lunch hour when the line is out the door and the pile of order slips begins to resemble a stack of flyers.

My ineptitude resulted in me being an irritant to the competent sandwich makers, a couple of whom could be rather nasty even when they weren't having to fix my dumb mistakes.

I can laugh about it now, but back then I'd spend several minutes in the bathroom before leaving my apartment to go to work (my nerves have often manifested themselves in my digestive system; there will be no more details on that point) and once I returned home, my hands would often tremble for about 15 minutes afterward.

My roommate at the time (who happened to be my sister) saw my shaking, vinegar-and-onions-reeking hands and declared, "You should quit."

Surprisingly, that had never occurred to me! I entertained the notion for about three seconds and then dismissed it. Loose bowels or no, I would not be beaten by this menial job.

I would become a savvy subber.

I would! I would!

Or...I wouldn't.

Due to my sub standard sub skills, I was usually appointed to man the register, taking orders and making change. After awhile, this demotion was fine by me because I noticed a cessation of the pre-work sludge and the post-work tremors.

I learned a few things whilst employed at the sub shop. One was that toaster ovens melt cheese on sandwiches delightfully (thus the reason I have owned one ever since) and another was that although tears can earn one comfort and care from parents and teachers, they will likely only get you eye rolls and stern lectures from coworkers and bosses.

However, none of this is what I intended to write about today. On with the memory...

There was a large population of foreign students at my university who would flock to our shop to sample the American delicacy known as sub sandwiches.

One particular student seemed to take a liking to me.

(This is amazing to me as I look at pictures of myself from that era. What about my denim-overalls-clad, retainer-sporting, acne-sprouting-chinned self could attract any member of the opposite sex? However, it was at this same time that Jeff proposed to me so apparently I had it going on, though how that is possible remains a mystery.)

When he would order, he would choose my line in which to stand. When he needed more napkins, he would seek me out to make his request. Once when I took my break, he sat near me to chat. After that occurrence, the coworker who had taken her break with me burst into the backroom, laughing and announcing to all the other subbers, "Some guy has the hots for Aimee!"

Yeah, I didn't get it either, but I didn't find it amusing.

There was nothing appealing about his attention, even if I hadn't been engaged elsewhere. Instead of fun and appreciative, it was patronizing and weird.

I did nothing to encourage this fellow who came again and again to buy sandwiches throughout his several week stay. I mean I'm an outgoing person, but I know when a guy is watching for those subtle hints that a gal is interested and trust me, I was sending him none of them.

There's a delicate balance that a worker must find between being a friendly and helpful representative of an establishment and someone who is letting a guy know that he ought to fish elsewhere. As time wore on, I became less of the former and more of the latter.

One day, I saw my opportunity to free myself of the would-be suitor and I seized it with both hands.

(I have no desire to slam an entire nation, so I won't say from where this student hailed, but I believe it is perfectly fair to say that in his culture, women do not enjoy the same level of equality that we do here in the US. This explains the weird turn of events.)

On this momentous occasion, I was behind the counter, busily doing something (besides making sandwiches, of course) when said student stormed into the shop from the outdoor eating area.

"You!" he said, shaking his finger at me. "You...ruin...my shirt!"

His tirade was riddled with pauses because apparently his English fluency level wasn't on par with his anger level.

"Excuse me?" I said, my own ire rising.

"You...not clean table and...is messy. Now is...on my shirt!"

(Our delicious subs dripped with oil and vinegar.)

"You! You...clean table now!"

Realizing that he assumed our "relationship" had developed to the point that he could treat me like an unappreciated, perhaps even abused, female, I shot him my steeliest deadpan expression and told him, "Say please."

"What?" he looked like I had just spat in his sandwich.

My coworkers, too, were shocked, all stopping whatever they were doing to watch this novel worker-customer interaction.

"Say please," I repeated slowly, calmly and ever so seriously.

It worked better than I even imagined. He completely deflated and mumbled, "Please...clean table."

I deliberately grabbed the spray bottle and towel and sauntered out to wipe down the offensive eating surface.

He stood by, watching and once I was finished, he meekly said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome." I said, brightly and returned to my non-sandwich-making duties.

As I reentered the shop, a girl named Kristen told me, "Good job, Aimee."

As you can imagine, over the years I haven't kept up with the foreign exchange chauvinist, but I hope that wherever he is, he still knows that not all females are eager for his fawning, creepy flirtations nor are they willing to put up with his ridiculous allegations.

Not even those of us who can't make sandwiches worth crap.