Certified Sandwich Artist

When I was a junior in high school I took a test at the local career center to see what I would be best suited for in the coming years of my life. The test asked you what kind of things you were interested in; if you liked working with people, if you enjoyed using your hands, etc, etc. Most kids got callbacks on their screens that said they'd make great doctors or welders or accountants. One kid refused to take the test, stating that he knew what he was going to do when he grew up - he was going to be a cartoon animator and he didn't need some dumb machine to tell him. They begged and pleaded with him, imploring him to keep his options open. They said he should at least LOOK to see what his potential could be. I don't know if he ever took the test. He probably failed the class. But can you blame him? A test like that is scary for a teenager getting ready to stare down their twenties and "real life". You'll answer some stupid questions on a computer that looks like the original beta version of computers everywhere and, depending on what you say, this thing is going to tell you if you're suited for your dream job or not. Maybe you don't have a dream job and maybe it's good for those kids but when you're on the cusp of chasing down your career and conquering it, the last thing you want to hear is "your ideal job is a career class teacher". Still a favorable job, but not for someone who wants to draw.

I, on the other hand, had no idea what I was going to do with my life. This was at least a year before I decided to go to film school and was still planning on hitchhiking to LA to be homeless and tell people about Jesus. I had big dreams of my own. I took the test and answered as truthfully as the multiple choices allowed me to (Do you like numbers? A.) Quite a bit B.) Theyr'e okay or C.) I hate numbers). Just as a point of interest, I hate numbers.

I remember it took about an hour to complete this thing. By the time you were done, the glowing green font was embedded into your retinas and you'd stare at your compu-career on the back of your eyeballs for the rest of the day. I finally reached the end and was SO excited to see what it said. Maybe it would say I could be a preacher. Maybe it would say I could be a youth pastor! I LOVE JESUS!

It told me I would be a good bus driver or garbage man.

"Sanitary Technician" is actually what it said.

I sat there, staring at the screen, all the wind pulled from my sails. I stared at "bus driver" and tried picturing myself coasting around in a big yellow bus for the rest of my life. Would I be friends with the kids? Would I hate them? Isn't it a prerequisite to be a pedophile to hold either of those positions? I was 17 and was dating a girl a year older than me. Maybe I was normal.

Across the room, sitting at a table alone, the kid who refused to take his test was drawing in his sketchbook, a naivety is his eyes. The world was his oyster and when he grew up, he was going to be an illustrator and he didn't need some stupid antique to give him affirmation.

During this point in my life, I was working at Subway as a " certified sandwich artist". It was stylized onto our shirts and I would constantly have to fend off the question, "did you actually have to go to school for this - to become a certified sandwich artist?" unto which I would answer, "yes. There's actually a Subway sandwich artist school up in Minnesota, near Mankato. Before you can actually start putting lettuce on bread, they give you an intensive two week bootcamp. I think it's really helped to take my sandwich skillz to the next level".

One night while working alone, during closing, I received a phone call from a girl who sounded pretty. "Subway, this is John, how can I help you?". Having to answer a telephone like that is one of the most humiliating and degrading things I will ever have to do. "How may I serve you oh master of the telephone? Please, allow me to be at your beckon call. Would you like a delicious sandwich made? I will tenderly place your choice of veggies on our fresh oven baked bread. Would you like pepperjack or swiss cheese? I am your sandwich slave. Say the word and it is as good as done".

"How may I help you?"

She's the leader of a basketball team (nice) from out of town. I was a loser and even speaking to her was out of my league but it was 12:30 at night (in the morning??) and no one knew who or what I was. I would play up my hidden studliness and impress the ladies. She needs to bring in her ENTIRE girls' basketball team for sammies. She just wanted to check if we were open and if it was cool to bring it twenty five highly attractive, sweaty, scantily dressed high school seniors into the restaurant where I was working all alone. I think I've seen pornos start this way.

"Sure, sure, yeah - come on in" then I add, "I'll be here, hahaha".

She laughs, but probably just out of kindness as was the situation with most strangers and friends alike in my life. I hang up the phone, straighten my shirt, pop my collar, mess up my hair until it's stylish and cool and give the counter a quick once over. The place has gotta look good if I'm gonna make out with 25 chicks back here. I sweep real quick, mop the place, refresh the veggies. I would've lit some candles if I had some, would've dimmed the lights a bit.

Things are ready. I'm ready to roll. It's go time. All of my sandwich artist training has brought me to this point in my life and it's clutch time. The bus pulls up out front and I feel a strange pop in my nose. I walk to the mirror in the back and gaze up my nostrils. Strange sensation. Blood pours out of my nose and down my lips. A frigging bloody lip? NOW? CHICKS DON'T MAKE OUT WITH GEEKS WITH BLOODY NOSES!!!!! I MAY AS WELL BE WEARING TIGHTY WHITIES AND PLAYING DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS!!!! My plan was aborting itself before it was even crowning. I try to relax. I try to think what a real man would do in my position (while trying not to think that a real man would never BE in my position). I grab a kleenex, stare at it and throw it away. I grab a Bounty paper towel, lay it over my face and blow as hard as I can. Blood sprays out and soaks the white paper like a scene from a horror film. I tilt my head down, stare straight into the mirror and sniff. Yeah, that' s it. Problem solved. No. Nevermind. Drip, drip, drip. I wipe my face with the bloody kleenex, smearing pink across the bottom of my face.

BING-BING.

That's the noise of the front door opening. I shut my eyes and sniff once, twice, three times. That's it. I've just gotta keep the sniffle-snuffles up and I should be fine. I wipe down my face, getting rid of the drying blood. I come around the corner and see just what I've been expecting. Hello ladies. They are all smiles and hoorahs, excited to see me. It was me and me alone that would fulfill their cravings. Their cheering filled me up and I could suddenly see the purpose behind the otherwise worthless cheerleader. I smile and wave shyly before washing the blood from my hands. I keep my head at a strange up-tilt to try and dissuade the blood from making an appearance. I sniff and scrub, sniff and scrub. I grab the paper towels, dry my hands and toss on the plastic gloves like little hand condoms.

I stand front and center in front of the first beautiful honey. We gaze into each other's eyes and she has no idea what I've got in store for her. I plan on covering her in lettuce and squirting oil and vinaigrette up her butt (if she'll let me). I am a junior in high school and girl butts are my oyster. I ask her what I can get for her and the moment that I take my focus off of sniffing, I feel the blood slide down my nasal cavity. I catch it and sniff before it escapes. Talking was going to be a serious problem but I figure if I can just get through the first two chickadees the rest will just sort of stop waiting for me to prompt them and they'll just tell me what they want. This is my plan for the entire evening.

She wants white bread, chicken breast and a foot long. I'm positive her sexual innuendoes are intended strictly for me. I wink at her and push her dinner down towards the end, where dessert waits. I ask her what type of - sniff - vegetables she wants - sniff. She says lettuce and tomatoes and olives. I put them on and say, "Anything else" and just then, at that precise moment, the whole girls' team watching me, squaring up my skillz, a giant red globule of blood slides out of my nose. I sniff but it's too late, gravity has taken over. It rolls down my bald top lip, leaps off my face and lands flat in her sandwich with a very slight, very quiet THWIP.

Everything is silent. I look up, blood on my face. I look into the eyes of each of my conquests, one by one and then I just say, "blood". The girl standing in front of me, she asks if it would be possible to make her a new sandwich.

I'm thinking that dimmer switch would be real nice about now.