Vibes and Stuff.

Nocturne Sub Runs.

Probably in the near future, unless it has already come to pass, a collection of statistics will surface showing the number of people who are prone to buying food at night.

I for one fit perfectly into this theoretical block of data when it comes to Subway.

This doesn’t seem to be a conscious effort, mobilizing in the wee hours of the night to get the mythical “five-dollar footlong.” Obviously, something that cheap can’t be a truly healthy alternative to more orthodox fast food in the long run. But my trips are few and far in between, despite occuring so many times that I realized the trend.

Whats irks me is the unknown reasoning behind this trifling dilemma. One possibility could be the distance. As there are two Subways relatively equidistant to the crib, it seems logical that they would gain my ill-timed patronage.

Another could be the assumed guilt that comes attached with extra-curricular eating. My ethos is not at all credible when it comes to fitness & diet (believe me, losing weight is not easy when there’s a lot of it) so I could be compensating this with the bologna cold cuts and regular mayonnaise.

The most appealling possibility, however, is the business model. For five bucks and some odd cents, I can purchase a good-looking, good-tasting sandwich the size of my arm that barely incapacitates my college budget. And to seal the deal, I get to decide the type of sub and what goes in the sub beyond the proprietary meat selection. My ego can barely remain humble at the amount of gastronomic sovereign I can control behind the sneeze guard.

My last visit happened a couple days ago. After waking up from my makeshift yet much needed nap, I could not even think well enough outside of getting something shoved down my throat. How did my car end up hugging the curves of that familiar path shrouded in trees and darkness, eventually pulling up in front of the iconic white, yellow and green sign, the January chicken flatbread melt ravishing my eyes as the door shifted to the side? Only God knows, but at least my wallet was with me.

I was the third person in line, the first shot-calling the final touches on her meal and the second fidgeting impatiently, even more so when she noticed me. I took stock of the menu, wondering which item would work with the current mood. Meatball marinara is too much right now. Turkey breast is eternally boring, as is the chicken breast. And I make my own tuna sandwiches at home, thank you very much. How about something premium? The Philly cheesesteak or roast beef make great visceral teasers, but of course they fall too far out of my monetary range.

My internal torment was put on hold when she, the primer/deli artisan/cashier, asked for the bread. About 5’3”, plump but not fat. Black hair tousled underneath the mandated hat, and her worn expression had the slightest bit of hope for better days. Plus she was genuinely attractive, all that other mumbo-jumbo about height and what not was pretty much scrawl. I chose the jalapeno bread.

“Can I get the veggie delight and the buffalo chicken to count as one footlong?” It was all for naught, as she sadly explained that the combination would exceed my range. Disappointed, the cold cut seemed like the safe bet. I made an off-hand comment about trying the veggie sandwich, and she cooly offered to help me out. I agreed. There had never been such a nicer time spent in a restaurant than that one, her taking a specialized license with the contraption and me looking on in unsure anticipation, only opting to choose the chipotle sauce and not to have tomatoes.

When it was all said and done, she even gave me a free drink for my horrific anxiety when initially buying the food. While my confounding legacy of midnight Subway trips still remains a mystery, it has truly blossomed into something magical, at least for that particular visit.

And she was right, the mayo would have been better.