A nice woman is cheerily making our sandwiches.
She looks up from the counter and screams at a Crazy Homeless Guy who is trying to sneak in while she’s distracted with us. She exclaims
“YOU CAN’T COME IN HERE ANYMORE!!!!!”
in a shriek that almost has ME making a run for it. The guy has no reaction other than to do an about-face without missing a step. He wanders off for the Burger King instead. He’s got that bohemian/hobo/destitute thing going with a wardrobe the upscale L.A. kids would have to pay hundreds of dollars to obtain.
She says they have a restraining order against him. I ponder how you go about getting a restraining order against a Crazy Homeless Guy and why he would care. Do that again, and we’ll take you somewhere with a bed and free meals! Some threat.
Mo tells her she’s pretty brave to be working alone. She shrugs as if to say it’s just part of the job and says that she had to Mace a guy last week. That explains the “All employees must wash their hands after Macing Crazy Homeless Guys” sign in the restroom.
She launches into the pros and cons of various pepper sprays. I would think the Subway jalapeños would be weapon enough, but apparently not. She describes foamy ones and jet-stream ones and a pink one that gives part of its profits to breast cancer research. Which just strikes me as creepy.
She finishes Mo’s sandwich and asks what I want. I want the special, which is a provocative offering called “chicken.” Sorry, we’re out of the special, she says. How can you have a daily special you don’t have? I’m annoyed. I mentally toy with staging a protest. Then I remember the Mace.
Roast beef will be fine, I offer. Please don’t kill me.
Working downtown makes you tough. Except for me. It just makes me scared.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll just bring dinner from home …