WHAT A RUSH! That feeling of anticipation that you get in your stomach when you place a to-go order at a restaurant under a false name that you unequivocally believe to be funny. But actually you are nervous because it has taken 10 minutes now, the name has yet to be called and you have been shaking in contemplation that maybe it really was not funny after all. Do you go up and check on your order? “Excuse me, is the order for Uncle Rheemus ready yet?” No, don’t blow your cover yet. Give it time. Trust the process. Blend in with the other people waiting for their orders who are also absolutely sweating profusely and can’t sit still.
Do you just walk out? You already paid, but now you are starting to think the $8.57 that you spent is a fair price for avoiding the embarrassment that will inevitably ensue when the guy who made your sandwich mispronounces your name and you have to correct him, in a last ditch effort to get your joke to land. You will undoubtedly have a tone, which will ruin the atmosphere. The guy will stare at you with eyes that scream, “Hey man, I work at fucking Jersey Mike’s. My sense of humor died with the 3 catering orders we received at 10 this morning.” Then you get into a shouting match about how this is ALL THAT I HAVE LEFT and your kids hate you. We’ve seen it a million times. The decades-old story of the Turkey Reuben on rye.
Well now you are posted up on the high table, not the original high table, another, better high table. You are closer to the exit. There is a vibe you are trying to put out, but whether or not anyone notices is basically the story of your life. You are sweating. It’s been 12 minutes. This is 7 minutes too long to be inside a Jimmy Johns. They are just fucking with you. Suddenly, a man appears from behind the counter and says, “Susan.” A lady, presumably Susan, stands up, approaches the sandwich and happily retrieves her meal. Little does she or anyone know how deeply you are now contemplating if it would have been funnier if you used her name instead of your stupid, stupid name. Susan would have killed. You never think a man would grab a sandwich with the name ‘Susan’ on it. Why didn’t I think of that? Your mother’s name is Susan. IT IS RIGHT THERE. Dammit.
It is time. You are walking out. That is when you hear your name called. Your actual name. You turn around and see Jersey Mike holding up a sandwich looking directly into your eyes. Has the joke flipped? Does this guy know you? Has he been holding your now soggy sandwich back there the whole time? You walk up, see that your name is written in your handwriting and just like in a soap opera flashback-montage, it all starts coming back to you. You had an idea, you got frightened and you wrote your own GD name on the bag. This is a familiar feeling. A dream unconquered. The dream of walking out of Firehouse Subs to a standing ovation. This time though, this time it felt so real. There is always tomorrow. Or the next day. You should really find another place to go for lunch.