Sonny in the Subway

On my recent drive back from New Orleans, my family and I stopped off somewhere in the Florida panhandle for a quick bite to eat at the local Subway. I say ‘somewhere’ because in all honesty, I have no idea what the little town’s name was. In that part of the state, most of the towns either have Native American names that are physically and linguistically impossible to pronounce (my theory is that the Native Americans did this on purpose as part of a revenge plot against the white man for stealing the land in the first place) or they are simply referred to by the exit ramp number of the nearest highway. I believe we were somewhere between Wewahitchka (roughly translated from Seminole to mean “Land of Roadkill”) and 233A.


Surprisingly, because it was already 8:30 at night, there was quite a line. My wife left me with the order and took the girls to find a seat. And I waited. And waited. And waited some more. As I stood in the sea of small town humanity I noticed some obvious differences between myself and the local hunters and gatherers surrounding me. Most noticeably was attire. I, for example, had chosen not to wear camouflage on every square inch of my body. I was alone in this particular fashion statement. Up to this point in my life I had been shamefully unaware that camouflage is an accepted pattern of material for items including sun dresses, bathing suits, and sandals. If this Subway had been located in the woods, I would have felt alone in that line.

Now, I’m not writing this to make fun of the fine folks in northwest Florida, but rather to relay a conversation that took place behind me in line between a boy and his grandfather. I had just completed ordering my sandwiches and was patiently waiting for the order to be filled by a lovely pregnant teenager with a nose ring and approximately four remaining teeth. She had just gotten done explaining to me why she couldn’t give me a cup for ice water (“My boss don’t let us give them out no more on account of all them thieven’ youngsters who grab them a cola instead”) and had gone about the business of slapping pre-cut slices of turkey onto a whole wheat roll. The duo behind me had started giving their order to the young man behind the counter who apparently was in charge of beginning every sandwich and then handing off the complicated issues, such as lettuce and salt, to the endearing young debutante whom I have just discussed. The grandfather began the order and skillfully read from a list of sandwiches that he needed prepared. The boy, maybe age 10, watched on in awe. When it came time for the last sandwich to be ordered, the young’un pleaded with his grandfather to order it himself. “Please, PawPaw, let me git my own sandwich this time!” PawPaw was happy to oblige. Below is the actual play by play of the conversation that followed:

Boy: I wanna five dolla foot long sandwich on bread.

Man: What kinda bread you want?

Boy: The foot long kind.

Man: But what flavor bread you want?

Boy: The one that tastes like bread (cocks head to the side).

PawPaw: Give him the white kind.

Boy: Yeah, the white kind.

Man: Ok, what kinda sandwich you want?

Boy: The five dolla foot long.

Man: But what kind?

Boy: The five dolla kind…dint you hear me?

(At this point, I seriously considered turning around and exclaiming, “Who’s on first,” but I feared that they would not understand my reference style humor and I did not wish to be labeled as a snooty city-folk.)

PawPaw: Sonny, you got to pick from this picture (points to illustrated menu on the sneeze guard).

Boy: Gimme the meat one…for five dollas.

PawPaw: He wants roast beef.

Man: You want cheese?

Boy: Only if it’s yella and it’s still the five dolla kind.

Man: Yes, all the foot longs are five dollars.

Boy: Well, why ain’t ya say that in the first place?

It was around this time that Miss CrystalMeth 2010 completed my order, gave me the two cups for soda (not water), and sent me on my way. I could not hear the boy’s conversation with her as he began ordering the vegetables and other toppings, but I wish I had. There’s something comforting about small town folks, especially those up in the panhandle, just a spitball away from Alabama. They’re earthy and genuine, and they make me feel good about myself and my family. And while they might not have the best fashion sense or understanding of grammar, hygiene, or dental care, they’re good folks. And more importantly, kids like Sonny are going to determine the salaries of all the teachers in those northwest counties. God bless ‘em!