Breed ... Like Rats
Not a good idea.
At the very front of the line was a woman with a bad tattoo and three little kids in tow. One was an infant in a stroller. His older brother, all of about eight, kept putting his butt in the kid's face. A classy move he probably aped off one of the guys who may or may not be his father. The mom tried paying with an ATM card, first disputing the price, and then flipping out because she didn't get the sandwich she wanted.
In front of me was a clan. A large clan. First there was grampa. He was a winner. Borderline transient looking with a hat featuring some skeleton giving the world the double middle finger. I bet that guy is so "fuck you world" that he doesn't even accept government subsidies. His meth lab supports him very well, thank you. Then there was the older daughter. A bad dye job did nothing to distract from her pajama bottoms and slippers. This was a 5:50 p.m., and she had probably just rolled out of bed, tired from another late shift telecommuting to MIT. Her sister was also in pajama bottoms (also on the late shift?) and she had what looked like a month old baby held to her chest. No, not to breast feed, but to shut the fuck up. Her other three kids sat with gramps. Her boyfriend (perhaps husband), was the best dressed of the bunch. You could tell any money he made went to new jeans (designer) that were three sizes too big, an expensive shirt, and bling. His kids could wear hand-me-downs, and they did that quite well.
The multiple sandwich orders these people gave were so fucking convoluted that had I been prepping them I would have taken one of those sandwich knives and plunged it handle-deep into the rat breeder's eyeball. Then I would have given it a few twists to see if I could go all blender-like on that region of the brain that controls speech.
"Lots of mayo and mustard, but not too much.
"Microwave the meat with the cheese on this one, but not that one."
"Do you have sourdough? No? What's close to that?"
"Yellow cheese on two of them, but not those others."
"Just a little onions. No, that's too much. Now that's too little. Are you listening?"
"We have three more sandwiches to order."
Oh. My. God.
My patience was pushed to the limit. At one point the rat breeder wanted to see the selections of bread, but I was in front of the sign. I wouldn't budge. People who go into public in pajamas don't have a lot of room to make demands. The only way this changes is if their house just burned down, and if that's the case they better be fucking polite about it.
"If he would move, I could see the breads, Dad."
I stayed in position. Look through me with your X-ray vision, Supergirl.
As they finally paid for their food, I could not help but think that as soon as she is able to, rat breeder would be knocked up again. Children somehow made her feel complete. I have friends who would love to have kids, who would make excellent parents. For one reason or another, they don't have them. Be it financial problems, medical, or just the fact that they haven't found the right partner (a huge deal when it comes to this sort of thing). And yet here this human rat was, passing out kids as if she was on the toilet after a Taco Bell meal. No thought to them. No thought to the world she was bringing them into. No thought at all. "Shut up," she said at one time to one of the older boys. "Mommy's trying to think."
I highly doubt that.
Twenty minutes in line behind these fine folks told me all I need to know. Demanding without any justification. Persecuted by a world of their own making. Quick to get into someone's face if they think they've been fucked with because, you know, the whole world fucks with them. Party hard. Play hard. Work? When they can get it they sometimes show up. The sperm donor, who has stuck around for God-knows-why cares more about how he looks than how the mother treats his spawns. The grandfather is hoping for a girl for reasons less than wholesome.
For twenty minutes they treated the Subway women like they were the lowest forms of life on the Earth. They did their best to make them feel small because they were customers and these ladies, who obviously didn't know how to microwave chicken, were mere employees. They had to listen to the breeders because they had the money. The customer is always right.
For twenty minutes they felt good about themselves. They felt good about being a collective pain in the ass to the Subway employees and everyone in line behind them. No regards to the world around them. No thought to the vague demands they were wielding. No thought at all.
Can't even make an effort to get dressed, yet you are more important than anyone else. Can't even make an effort to bathe your children and put them in clean clothes, and yet you make demands. Can't even treat Subway workers with an ounce of respect, yet you expect people to move the fuck out of your way when you want to see a bread selection that hasn't changed in four years.
All I kept thinking was: Those kids are doomed.
Breed. Like rats.