My Lunch

I was supposed to take my friend Max to lunch for his birthday today. Max decided to go run some errands rather than take me up on my offer, so I decided to treat myself to Subway at the corner of Stockton and Broadway.

Now I've been to this place several times before and I'm usually pretty good at ignoring the gangsters and beggars that seem to buzz around this area. Today was a little different. A homeless black woman in her fifties walked up to my truck as soon as I pulled into the parking lot. Her attire was inappropriate for the temperate 75 degree weather we've been having in Sacramento, a dirty wool coat, long shorts, and what looked like someone's discarded house slippers. She delivered the typical request, "Got any change."
And I responded with my usual, "I don't have any money."
I guess I've thought about this scenario quite a bit, and I've come up with a retort that I believe garners the least amount of additional interaction with the subject.

Today my response worked. But as the old lady sauntered off, I wondered when she had last had something to eat. Even if she was just scrounging for enough change to buy a cheap bottle of vodka or King Cobra, she still required sustenance. And how did I know what she was going to use the money for, it's not like she'd tell me the truth if I asked? You see, I have these things figured out.

Anyhow, I went against my better judgment and caught up to the lady and asked if I could buy her a sandwich instead. Without skipping a beat, she motioned toward the Jack In the Box across the street and said, "I'd rather have a burger." Now I know how bad fast food burgers are for the human body, which is precisely why I was at Subway in the first place. I told her to take it or leave it.

As we waited in the long line, I played the 2- questions game of determining just what kind of sandwich to order for my guest. While I pegged her for the meatball sub type, she started off with a request for pastrami and ended up, after several direction changes, deciding on the Italian BMT (Big Meaty Trio, or something lame like that). "It's like a drink," she said, "You've gotta try something new." Whatever.

She was fine with the standard fare, mustard, mayo, lettuce tomato, onion, and of course, green and black olives. "You know, the green ones with the red inside," she requested.
"They don't have green olives at Subway," I said, "just black ones."

"Fine, I'll have the black ones with the red inside," she quipped. Dammit! This is the point where I started questioning this act of charity. I asked the lady to take a seat and told her I'd bring her the sandwich.

The other patrons were finding this whole ordeal a bit humorous. Some stared inquisitively.
I prayed that the line would move faster and that there wasn't someone breaking into my truck in the parking lot while I waited.

As I finally reached the point of placing my order, the lady got up from her seat at came up to me again. "Will you buy me a soda too?", she asked.
Now I can appreciate the relationship of a tasty beverage to a footlong, but I wasn't buying myself a soda as I've been trying to cut back, so I told her I'd get her a water. She huffed and disappeared back to the area where she'd been sitting.
Of course the lady ringing me up said, "Oooo, an Italian BMT, would you like to make that a meal with chips and a drink?"
I managed not to ad the F word to my response and she quickly bagged the two sandwiches. As I pulled out the BMT and walked it over to the lady, I wondered to myself if she was just going to go to the corner and pander it for cash. I handed her the sandwich to which she instantly said, "I guess I'll get my own bag."
Stunned, I said, " You're WELCOME.".
Out of obligation, she did manage to thank me as she walked out the door, sandwich bag in one hand, water in another. Her lazy eye was distracting, but her smile was distinct.