I probably ate my last Subway sandwich yesterday. I say probably, because I’m caught up in the sort of silly resolution that most people reserve for killing pedophiles and children’s show characters. It’ll pass, much like the sandwich did this morning.
For as long as I’ve been aware of Subway, one of the big reasons to go was the Subway Club Cards. Buy a sandwich, and get a stamp or two. Get eight stamps, and get a free six-inch sandwich with purchase of a nasty battery-acid soda drink. I’d used a full card two weeks prior, so I picked up a new card. The girl behind the counter waited until I’d paid for my order to point to the wall where the stamp dispenser used to be, and declare that they “don’t do stamps anymore.” Apparently this promotion ended April 16, and if I’d bothered to read the fine print on the cards themselves, I’d know this.
Why then, I wondered aloud, was there a stack of blank Subway Club cards a quarter-inch high on the counter?
Oh, she and her management drone co-worker who had more chin than forehead, that’s for people who haven’t finished with the “tickets.” Tickets I took as slang for “stamps,” but I wasn’t going to leave these people with the idea that I wanted to have a conversation with them. Apparently there are people out there in the world with undeclared Subway stamps but haven’t put them on cards, so those cards are still needed.
Today I’m enjoying a cheeseburger and side of onion rings from a place called Billy Bob’s Burgers. It got featured in the newspaper as a local business. They buy their ground beef in bulk from local butchers and make their own patties. They gave me my order in a plain brown paper bag with “CB” and “OR” written on it with a Sharpie. The burger came wrapped in semi-transparent wax paper.
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