Here’s the scene: I walk into a Subway (the sub making chain, not the mass transit system) with the intent of picking up my dinner. I don’t eat fast food very often so there’s always an element of discomfort lingering within my brain whenever I walk into such an establishment. This makes little sense, really, since I’m a vegetarian and the average number of items that I can actually order from any fast food menu hovers right around, well, usually one. Even considering my bad short term memory, I still feel that I should be able to remember the name of that one available item and yet I can’t. I’d love to say that I have items of the utmost importance rattling through my brain that leave me little use for such trivial knowledge but as this column will clearly demonstrate that’s simply not the case.
I walk in, take my place in line, and start looking over the numerous menu selections for that one available item of which I can order. I know it’s a veggie something…ahh, there it is, the famed veggie delight. I’m more hungry than usual so I decide to further step out of my comfort zone and order the bigger sandwich. A moment of mild panic ensues: is it called a large, or a 12 inch, or what? Nope, it’s listed as a “footlong” whereas my usual smaller meal would be a 6 inch. There must be some sort of appeal to the word footlong that I’m simply missing. Strangely, the word makes me a bit uncomfortable.
I’ve always been more nervous than usual in Subway due to their multi-person sandwich compiling method. I guess it’s more efficient for them to have multiple people pass the sandwich down to one another before completion but personally I feel that it’s like sharing my lunch with half the neighborhood. Quite honestly, do I really need to see the sandwich being put together? Is this really a plus? Can’t I just tell you what I want and then you can go off and do it…magically? Furthermore, does everyone need to know what I’m ordering and what I want on it? There’s no privacy, I tell you. I could maybe understand if there was a gimmick of sorts to it, such as the workers throw the sandwich in the air to one another, occasionally allowing it to do a complete flip upside down and yet land still intact, but this probably has logistical issues to it.
Of course, all of these things are floating through my mind as my big moment of ordering approaches. It’s now my turn and I walk up to the young lady taking the orders, now saying out loud my rehearsed request. Confidently, I tell the young lady, “Yes, I’d like a football…” Football? Where the heck did that come from? Did I just tell this girl that I wanted a football??! I realize my error almost immediately, stopping mid-sentence as panic changes to mild humiliation. The girl looks at me, eyes widened in disbelief, and then basically busts out in laughter, myself doing about the same at this point. After explaining that what I really want is a footlong veggie delight the joke continues, literally all the way down the sandwich passing chain of command. The cashier was particularly confused when she asked what I ordered and the original order taker yelled down, “It’s not a sandwich, it’s a football! Well, that’s what he wanted!” The girl was still saying “football” and laughing even as I exited the building. Something tells me that I made her day.
The strangest thing is that I don’t even like football. This was clearly a “what I meant was…” moment, something that happens a bit too often for me these days. Maybe it’s old age starting to settle in? Perhaps it’s all that soy milk that I insisted drinking over the past couple of years slowly devouring my brain cells? Regardless of its’ source, it’s quite obvious that I’m starting to lose it.
A couple days ago I attended a rock concert downtown at a club called First Avenue. Whereas their albums tend to be quite fantastic, I can now say with a certain amount of confidence that the band Stereolab is one of the most awful and boring live bands in existence and I’d much rather watch two mummies attempting to play soccer. All that aside, one of the louder songs that they played that evening ended rather abruptly, leaving the audience surprised and not ready to give the usual obligatory applause. Right as the music stopped, the guy next to me evidently also wasn’t prepared for the few seconds of silence that suddenly filled the room and the tail end of his discussion became very audible to me: “…so I guess I should pee more often.” This isn’t really a “what I meant was…” moment at all but I’ll turn it around a bit: what exactly did he mean by that? What were they talking about, and can I or should I attempt to join the conversation??! I couldn’t help but wonder for the remainder of the show, especially since that phrase was in my opinion ten times more intriguing than the performance on the stage. Perhaps this guy should go on tour instead, saying short incomplete bizarre phrases followed by bouts of silence so as to leave the audience wondering? There could be money in that sort of thing, I’d guess.
My very ultimate “what I meant was…” moment was a few years ago and it’s a true classic, one that I have yet to beat and I’m certainly not trying to. I was out to lunch with a few of my coworkers at a local Mexican restaurant and we had just finished eating. We all paid our share at the register and started filing one by one outside. As I exited the restaurant, I was talking and kidding about something of which I can’t remember with a friend of mine. Now, let me explain that I grew up in a household where the term “bum” was used quite often, such as “you look like a bum”, “you bum”, or the still confusing to this day “I’m going bummin’” which somehow means you’re going shopping (don’t ask me how, just accept it, and remember I didn’t come up with it). Anyhow, the word has stuck with me unfortunately through the years and as I’m talking back and forth with my friend, walking past a pillar, I say to him “You big bum!” Literally only milliseconds later I clear the pillar and standing there is a homeless person, shopping cart and all, with a look of pure shock on her face. A mixture of panic, embarrassment, and a need to clear things up embraces me and yet my mouth just hangs open limply, no words coming out, sort of like the look Donald Sutherland gave in “Invasion of the Body Snatchers”. What can I say at this point? “Er, sorry, I didn’t mean you, I meant him…” or perhaps I should attempt to explain my parents’ version of the word, doing a true Woody Allen or Larry David attempt at clarification that’s bound to end in total disaster? No, none of these seemed like they’d help and there was simply no way out. Meanwhile, the woman keeps her eyes locked on me, all the while grimacing as we pass and continue towards our car. As we drive away I feel horrid and yet I’m totally innocent. Well, what I meant was…
My last account happened two weeks ago right in front of my workplace. I parked my car in the parking lot as usual and casually made my way to the crosswalk, patiently waiting for the light to change. I finally got the walk sign and as I’m about to enter the roadway the car to my left decides it’s going to turn right, literally right into me, in essence cutting me off and nearly running me over. I smartly lag behind allowing him to do his rude behavior and then enter the roadway, all the while thinking about how some people are in such a hurry that they’ll mow you down in the crosswalk. Just then, the very next car also turns but this time right into me! Albeit he’s moving extremely slowly, he’s still more or less following me with the front end of his car, sort of like the Three Stooges “…slowly I turn, step by step…” routine. I’m in total shock and look up at the light again just in case I’m being excessively spacey. Low and behold I am in the crosswalk and I do have the signal to walk so I have not lost my mind. I continue walking and finally get past the guy’s car and make the horrid mistake of turning my head to see if he’s also sped off down the road like his predecessor. Well, he’s not and instead he slows even further, rolls down his window (keep in mind it’s about 15 degrees outside), and starts yelling obscenities at me such as “…next time you better move your f***in’ *ss…”, and so on. Let’s go over this one more time: I’m in the crosswalk and I have the “WALK” sign!!! Have I suddenly been transported to another planet where the rules are reversed? I don’t get it. Most people I work with prefer to jaywalk, some even to the extent that they stop traffic because they’re in the middle of the street with cars rightfully approaching. I on the other hand am following the rules and I’m cussed out in the middle of the road in front of all of St. Paul. There’s clearly no justice. If only Judge Judy had been there to set the guy straight: “He’s in the sidewalk, you ninny!!! You’re not stupid, are you?!”
Yes, you’re right, this last anecdote really has nothing to do with “what I meant was…”, especially since I think what the guy meant was precisely what he said! As for his mental condition, though, I can only hope that he seeks the help that he’s in so dire need of…
In the meantime, I’ve got to remember to cut down on that soy milk.
