Casey typically avoided stopping in Collinsville on the trip home. But tonight, it was inevitable. He hadn’t gotten a meal before starting the drive, and was now starving at 9 pm.
Collinsville, in Casey’s opinion, was not a very nice town. Whenever he stopped at a restaurant there, the pipes were typically busted. There was a distinct smell of trash, and more often than not, the power was out due to some recent severe weather. The convenience store near the interstate exit once had a sign in its front window offering a replacement pack of bologna “no questions asked” if the one you bought turned out to be spoiled from the busted refrigerator. It seemed suspicious that the town was always in the middle of a natural disaster when he drove through, but he pushed this to the back of his mind as he hunted for a still-open restaurant.
Finally, he found it. A Subway. He briefly hesitated before getting out of the car. Casey found Subway to be a humbling fast-food experience. Despite his age, Casey was (what his doctors considered) a pathologically picky eater, and only really felt comfortable eating their bread and cheese. The meats looked warm and gross, and the vegetables floppy and subpar. He had a suspicion that the Sandwich Artists, no matter how polite they were to his face, mocked his cheese footlong once he left the restaurant. Regardless, he could swallow his discomfort for the 5 minutes required to get in and get out.
***
The restaurant was about as dingy as he expected a Collinsville Subway to be. It had the trademark brown tiles and NYC themed wallpaper, with disconcerting stains splattered on the ground and across the tables. Casey put it out of his mind. He wouldn’t be eating there. The restaurant itself was empty. Granted, he didn’t expect a ton of people to be buying subs this late, but it was also devoid of any apparent employees.
“Uh, hello?” Casey almost put his shoe in a sticky puddle of something while searching for signs of life.. Maybe he should find a different chain.
Before he could leave, he heard a clattering from the back of the restaurant. As he neared the counter, a man popped out from the kitchen. He looked older than the typical Subway employee. In fact, he had an almost dignified presence; he had an impressive frame, maturing beard, and rested a fist on the counter in a manner that somehow reminded Casey of a ship’s captain. This ostentatious vibe was shattered the moment he began to speak.
“You’re not a cop, are ya?”
“No. I’d like to order a sandwich, if– uh– you’re still open?
The man watched Casey, his brows furrowed. He appeared to reach some kind of decision, and relaxed accordingly.
“You bet, fella. What are ya having?” From somewhere, the man produced a pair of gloves and a dirty knife. The knife looked recently used. Casey didn’t think Subways were typically so “fresh” that they cut their own meats, but what did he know?
“Yeah, can I get a footlong on Italian?”
“For sure for sure.” The man grabbed a fresh loaf of spongy white bread, and moved to slice it with the soiled knife.
“WAIT!” The man paused. “Could you, maybe use a different knife?” His voice was swallowed up by guilt. Even if this guy was a creep, he was making minimum wage and asking for more felt unreasonable. Still, the knife glistened with red juices, and even the thought of consuming something so contaminated made him start gagging..
“Sure buddy, I gotcha.” The sandwich artist produced a different knife from under the counter and began slicing the bread. It was stained with something else, more brown than red. Casey stifled a noise, but said nothing..
“What meats you want?”
“Um, none, please. Can I just get some mozzarella and provolone? Please?”
The guy stopped and stared at Casey again. “No meat?”
“That’s… that’s what I said.”
The guy placed the knife down on the counter and sized-up Casey, like he was a multivariable calculus problem and the sandwich artist had received a Bachelor’s in French Horn Performance.
“What kinda sub doesn’t have meat. Come on man.” He picked up a thinly sliced sheet of deli meat with gloved fingers. “…I shouldn’t be telling you this, but we’ve got some special meat in tonight. Real special. The kinda stuff you couldn’t get anywhere else. If ya get me.” He smirked and waggled the lunchmeat like that would make it more enticing.
“Ah, what… kind of meat?”
The Sandwich Artist kept smiling and waggling. He did not respond to the question.
While I appreciate the offer, I think I’m good.” Casey shuffled and cast a deliberate glance towards the cheese trays. “I’m a vegetarian, you know.” he lied.
“Oh, this shit’s vegan. I mean, depending on your definition of veganism. Lots of debate on the subreddit” This statement did not comfort Casey, and he tried to make a polite (but forceful) expression. The sandwich maker stared for a moment longer, but eventually layered provolone and mozzarella onto the bread. “Um, and can I get it toasted? Thank you.” The request irked the man further, but he placed the sub into the toaster oven, and continued to stare Casey down.
The men kept sustained eye contact. Casey didn’t want to aggravate him further, but he couldn’t tell if this was a wild animal situation (where staring would only further infuriate the beast), or if breaking his gaze would be interpreted as a sign of submission, triggering an attack. He gave the Sandwich Artist a weak smile and chuckle, and was met with a hollow expression.
“DING”
The man finally broke eye contact to remove the toasted sub from the oven. He placed it in front of the vegetables, and Casey felt the tension rise again.
“Ah, no vegetables, please.”
“No vegetables. You said you were a vegetarian” The man spoke in a placid voice, but his gaze was loaded with venom.
“I mean, uh, if that’s okay. Like, just a grilled cheese, basically?” That was a normal thing to order, Casey insisted internally. That’s a thing people ate. It didn’t deserve this level of interrogation.
The sandwich artist was quiet, his head down in contemplation. When he turned to face the customer again, artificial joy was plastered on his face. Casey took a step back.
“You know, there’s this new Grilled Cheese trend you should try. It’s real popular in Portland.”
“Oh, is that so? I’m not feeling very adventurous today, but maybe some other time.”
“Don’t be a little bitch.” The man stepped into the back for a few seconds, and Casey almost bolted. This absolutely was not worth the trouble. But, in that moment, all he really wanted was his boring cheese sandwich. McDonalds fries would make his face all greasy for the rest of the way home. This was the only option. .
The man returned from the back of the restaurant holding a metal bin. “Boy, you’re gonna love this.” He set the bin down on the counter, a wet sound emanating from within. Casey peered in, and saw chunks of a non-descript meat marinating in an aromatic fluid.
“I appreciate it, but I told you I’m a vegetarian…”
It’s still vegan. Depending, you know. On personal definitions.” The man leaned in as close to Casey as the sneeze guard would allow, their faces inches apart. “I swear, a bit of this on your sandwich, and it’ll change your life.”
“U-uncooked? I mean, I don’t really want salmonella, or uh, whatever.”
“25% off your order. If you get the upgrade.”
“I don’t know man.”
“50%.”
“I-I really just want the grilled cheese.”
“On the house, buddy. I swear. It’ll change your life.”
Casey clenched his fists and forced a smile. “NO. Thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I’m very happy with my order. What-what’s your motto? ‘Have it your way?’ I think, uh, that’s what I’m gonna do.” He planted his feet firm on the tiled floor, his knees still trembling under him.
The man growled “That’s Burger King, dipshit,” but sliced the grilled cheese sub in half and began to wrap it up.
***
The Sandwich Artist had overcharged him for the sandwich by about five bucks, but Casey would have paid fifty to get out of the situation. He got into his car and drove a few parking lots over before stopping to inspect the sub. Everything in the sandwich seemed to be in order and he prepared to eat, putting the encounter out of his mind.
As he set the sack down on the passenger seat, a bundle of napkins fell out. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see a message scrawled on one of them: “For the road,” coupled with a winky face. His trembling hands began to unwrap the napkins, and Casey found something heavy, pallid, and surprisingly hard inside.
A severed finger.
Just before fainting, Casey made a mental note to take a different route home the next time, and to bring a jar of peanut butter and spoon as well.