COLUMN: Got late night munchies? Do I have a footlong for you
I’ve been here before, I’m sure many of you have as well. It’s late Friday night, or in this case Tuesday night, and you’re hungry. Whether brought on by a long night of studies, cutthroat games of Risk or sheer boredom, we become engulfed in the realm of preliminary starvation, and find ourselves in the late night pickle of all pickles (noting that, had we purchased pickles last week at Wal-Mart, we wouldn’t be in the situation).
These moments in each collegiate participant’s life are a catalyst for myriad interesting choices, mindsets and experiences. Let me share with you just one of my own.
Dateline – sometime last month, just before two a.m. I sat quietly in my most comfortable state – in a brown armchair wearing my red Snuggie. I was doing my best to stay sane whilst attempting to have the privilege of being number 16 on the waitlist for a class, as my stomach gave a self-assuring growl that seemed to say “if you were asleep like most functioning humans at this hour, this wouldn’t be happening, but while you’re here you might as well take care of it.”
My heart fell grim, as the realization hit me that my choices for such a night were reduced to Rancheritos, Burger King and that package of pork-flavored ramen noodles I had been saving for a special occasion (i.e. “Thursday”).
Cue my friend Sara, my late-night eatery adventure comrade. We exchange pleasantries and I explain to her my newly-found predicament. She wasn’t shocked of course, as she gave me the news that would alter my being forever.
“Did you know that Subway is now open 24 hours a day?”
I let out a gasp, almost choking on the handful of Fun-Yuns I completely forgot I had purchased that week. I glanced quickly at the clock, which read 1:43 a.m. Normal people would vie to go to bed at this point. I denied those claims, for they were blocked from my brain by the alluring sound of a woman in a dark green polo and black visor saying “would you like it toasted?” With that, I threw on my sweater and we were off.
I’m sure at this point, most readers are confused of my excitement for such an occasion. Simply stated, I am an avid fan of what Taco Bell famed as the “fourthmeal.” My love for nighttime nummy-nums seems to control a lot of my life, and the small thought of eating something even remotely close to healthy opened me to a whole new world of possibility that didn’t involve french fries or steak-and-potato burritos that throw any digestive system through the ringer. I’ll take what I can get.
I walked into an empty store, graced only by a few straw wrappers on the floor, Natalie Imbruglia’s “Torn” playing over the PA system and a glum, fatigue-stricken employee behind the counter. I stepped up to the counter with a smile, visions of oven-roasted chicken and yellow peppers dancing in my head. I made my order and Sara, some guy named Brian and I made a beeline for the small table in the corner.
Then, as is the norm in my life, it all went nutty.
We sat and ate, losing ourselves in debating why KitKats are the best candy bar of all time, as I finally noticed the miracle occurring at the front of the store. Brian stood up and walked over to buy a cookie, then returned quickly after to the shock and awe of what he discovered.
As I looked over at his new find, I nearly dropped the second half of my sandwich, black olives and all, swiftly on the floor. Between what must have been about 15 people were lined up broadly from the counter, answering to the same five-dollar footlong call which beckoned to me just minutes earlier. I checked my watch, it was past 2 a.m. at this point, and I was dumbfounded.
Subway had a late-night rush hour. Subway! This was the same eating establishment I went to in high school when the principal gave us 20 extra minutes for lunch because of an assembly, certainly not a place recognized for getting a “quick bite.” All my views of memories of this restaurant – the rapidly thinning Jared, “Happy Gilmore” and for some reason a manatee – had changed completely. People wanted not-burgers, and they wanted them now. It was a gutsy move by Subway, and they had succeeded. Who knew?
Sara, Brian and I left that day at what we felt was the dawning of a revolution, the spawn of the age of midnight footlongs, nocturnal flatbread and provolone cheese only suited for the insomniac. And to our biggest shock, we learned that they would march on strong.
It was a new lesson learned for Steve Schwartzman that day, “If you build it, and it’s substantially low on bacon grease, they will come.” My proudest “fourthmeal” experience gave me the confidence to take risks, to enjoy the tender mercies of life, to never order extra vinegar just before bed (welcome stomachache city), and most of all, to never give up on a dream. Standing aside my new-ound, late-night sandwich-loving friends, it was well worth the wait.
And speaking of waiting, I still can’t get on this daggum waitlist.
Questions or comments can be sent to Steve at steve.schwartzman@aggiemail.usu.edu.