Just so there’s no confusion, I’d lay my life down for a five dollar steak and cheese foot long. Los Angeles is a city where you can walk two blocks and you’re at some of the best bistros and eateries in the country. From steakhouses to Italian cuisine, LA offers an eclectic blend of down home favorites and regionals twists to dining classics, making the city a foodie’s wet dream.
But I know my God given rights.
After enduring a 4 hour flight of a Honey Boo Boo-esque blonde haired tyrant screaming at the top of her lungs while the piece of shit stewardesses of the highly amenable United Airlines smiled and brought her more hard candies and cola, I sat in my seat like a proud solider of the confederacy and counted the minutes until we’d land safely in the city of opportunity. I collect my carry-on bag and move towards the exit, but not before shooting Honey Boo Boo’s mother a bird so powerful it almost broke my wrist. The balls of some parents bringing their asshole kids on flights knowing full well their history for bitchassness. “Oh, Samantha’s a little cranky because she just woke up from a nap,” or “Don’t mind Jr., he’s just lashing out because they were out of McFlurry Mix at McDonalds.” Meanwhile, we’re supposed to put on understanding smiles and assure unfit mothers with a “I know how that is, girl!” and join in an apologetic laugh.
Fuck that. Put little Jr. on Spirit Airlines and get your shit together. For those of you who haven’t heard of Spirit Airlines, it’s those cute little planes that only fly from Atlanta to wherever the fuck they want. But they’re black owned so we’ll just pretend they don’t exist like that gay cruise Rosie O’Donnell navigates through these pure American seas every year.
I step off the plane and flag down a cabbie because I was starving, having only eaten 3 bags of nuts and grilled chicken over a bed of white rice and an entire bundle of asparagus. I tell him to take me to the nearest Subway and if he hurries I might let him swipe my debit card before shouting “This is for 9/11” and perform a tuck and roll onto Sunset Blvd. We arrive at Subway and a warmth I’ve experienced before on several occasions pours over me and I know I’m home. Jared from the Subway commercials tricked America into thinking Subway was a place the health-conscience could feel at home. A place where green leaf was God, and carbs were just a five letter world for recovery. I made it my business to upset the order of the fake goodness Subway was hell bent on feeding the American public every time I walked into their establishment. My order never changed:
“I’d like a steak and American cheese on white bread. Extra steak. Extra cheese. And If you so much as think about toasting that bread, I’ll fucking lose it. Tomatoes doused in vinegar, mayo-oh wow, did you just touch that lite shit? Fuck off, lemme speak to your manager. Butter the top of it and wrap it up. Throw in three of those macadamia nut cookies and dump a couple bags of those cheesy sun chips in there. Bitch, you know how I like it. And please make haste because I’m likely to disappear in this motherfucker if I get any hungrier.”
I walk into the Subway ready to sound off my demands when I’m met with a line wrapping around the store.
I whip out the 3GS and allow 4 Non blondes to serenade my frontal lobe and before I know it I’ve worked my way to the front of the line. What’s Up? is 3:36 seconds long and after having repeated it three times, it still didn’t account for the swiftness in which this line was moving. Anyone who’s ever gone to a Subway knows full well the average sandwich could take anywhere between 5-10 minutes to make, depending on the mood the bitch at the toppings station is in. This was the work of a higher being. Being so heavily engulfed in the musical brilliance that is 4 Non Blondes, I pay no attention to the commotion happening in the rear of the store. A single shotgun blast is fired into the ceiling and I immediately have a chilling flashback of that one time at an Applebee’s when I had to put one in my server’s dome for suggesting the meals under 550 calories menu like I was some sort of fucking animal.
“GET ON THE FUCKING GROUD AND DON’T MOVE!” the perpetrators shout, and we fall to the floor. “Who the fuck robs a Subway?” I say aloud, forgetting for a moment this was no time for my usual dose of shit talking. For my treason, the shorter of the two introduces the butt of his pistol to my head.
Welcome to Los Angeles.
It isn’t until after I wake that I realize these two bros had just robbed a neighboring bank and ran in Subway after a failed getaway attempt and we poor saps were just caught in the crossfire. The taller one makes an announcement:
“Everyone get back in line and have your orders taken. Sandwiches are on the house.” Finally, a ray of light in this bullshit of a situation. I was rightfully next in line but apparently the blowback from the gun knocked me 6 places behind. I finally arrive to the glass, look up to the individual who is charged to make my dream of a steak and cheese footlong a reality, and my world shatters into a thousand pieces. Before me stood a 5’5 745 pound Precious: Based on the novel “Push” by Sapphire look-alike sweating like she’d just come from the cotton fields of west Alabama.
“No,” I say. “Let her make it.” I point to the devil ginger a third her size. “Nah, she new. All she can do is warm the toast and shit,” Precious muses. With each passing moment the sweat drops from her face and arms and neck and drops ever so grossly onto the preparation table. Who the fuck does this bitch think she is? I knew I was out of my league entirely with this heavyweight but I press further.
“Who the fuck is that? My name Tisha.”
“Tisha please allow the young lady next to you to make my sandwich. You need to wipe your face because this shit you’re pulling right now is outrageous.” I knew then why the line had moved so rapidly. Tisha had single handedly grossed out 70 percent of the clientele just by refusing to stop for a gush n’ go following all the electrolytes she’d been dropping in everyone’s sandwiches for an hour and a half.
“Nah, nigga I’m straight. What you want?”
“What the fuck is the hold up?” the taller robber asks.
“He don’t want me to make his sandwich.”
“What, are you some sort of a racist?” I look around the room because clearly he couldn’t be speaking to me. “No, I’m not a racist. I just would rather have someone else make my sandwich.” “You’re a fucking racist.” And as if I were a middle aged white man who just shouted the “N” word in a crowded Tyler Perry viewing, I was trapped between waves of angry protesters, furious at my decision to have my sandwich with as less sweat as possible. I finally give in and asked Precious to make my sandwich, visibly watching as each drop made its way closer and closer to my steak and cheese perfection. I promised God at that very moment, if he got me through this, I’d take the long way past the church on my way to McShrrie’s Tavern next Christmas. My prayers were answered as the devil ginger packed my sandwich and handed it to me unscathed. I took my seat next to a window and waited for the cavalry to arrive. I knew that just by being black in Los Angeles there was a 90% chance I’d be the first one to receive a live round to the jugular so I took my sweet ass time eating what might quite possibly be my last meal. I’m halfway done when I hear the second shot from the men’s restroom and a gentleman of about 35 years old falls to the floor.
Hostage negotiations had begun.
Rub a dub dub. Dead bitch in the tub.