When I was a teenager, I worked at Subway, home of the 5 Dolla foot loonngggs. After the probationary period, I got an official name tag that read “Sandwich Artist.” A proud day.
The correct order of condiments goes: lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, green peppers, black olives. Hot peppers, salt n peppa (shake it good!), mayo, oil, vinegar, mustard, oregano, and old bay. Oh and a few secret sauces for weird food of the “gardenburger” variety.
I remember every detail of the store, the setups, walk in fridge, the whole shebang. Fourteen years have passed since I ‘moved on’ to full time hell camp. My dreams are frequented by Subway sandwich artist issues like “Where are the white chocolate macadamia nut cookies?” “Is there bread in the proofer?” “Who is working this shift w/ me?” Of all my recurring dreams, Subway is probably the most healthy because I never feel too overwhelmed or uneasy. And do you know what else? I never dream about the office job that I’ve spent 15 years at, versus my two and a half years at Subway.