Darren W.
Yelp
An interesting new co-worker and Roy Orbison lookalike named Sam who commutes to and from Youngstown, Ohio (!?!) had been telling me for weeks about...a recurring nightmare...
http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2657/3786675072_53de496d69.jpg
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQApMMwj0NQ
Knowing that I have a reputation for scarfing down ludicrous amounts of food, Sam wanted to test me. One day last week, he arrived an hour early, arranging to meet me at a picnic table on the warehouse campus during my lunch.
It was a day as bright as an advanced placement student. The sun glared onto the cars in my employer's parking lot, nearly blinding me as I exited the darkened building in which I toil.
If this reads like a street fight to you, it was.
Out of Sam's car came a sandwich wrapped in white paper. It was two feet long and contained 2 pounds of meat alone.
"I made a detour for ya," Sam told me. "Sharpsville. Lock, Stock, and Barrel. They got this here hoagie..."
He handed it to me. I went to the table, and feverishly unwrapped it.
It spoke to me.
"I heard 'bout you. You city boy. I'll stuff you sick. You can't eat me. You can't beat me."
I opened up the morning-fresh bread and poured the oil and vinegar that came with the sandwich onto the market-quality produce that lay inside it.
I had less than a half an hour.
"I'm wagerin' you can do it, Darren," said my poker-faced colleague as he leaned back in his wooden chair, rubbing his chin
I took a bite and chewed and chewed and chewed, my jaws aching not even 1/4 of the way in.
Sam lit a cigar. A good cigar.
"They've been there 30 some years, and the same ladies are still there, the same ones that were there when I was a kid. They cut the meat fresh for each sandwich. You're eatin' two pounds of deli meat right now," Sam mentioned while pointing his finger at the titanic, titular torpedo, tobacco smoke spewing from his mouth.
Minutes later, a crowd gathered.
Now I knew I needed to put on a show for the people, and I needed it to be a win.
The meat was luscious, the cheese alternately soothed with cream and bit with enzymes. The tangy vegetables crushed like underbrush. The hearty bread threatened to do me in.
With 30 seconds to spare, the grinder known as the Italian Nightmare was but a daydream, and the only hero left standing was me.
"See, I knew you'd do it," said Sam. "I just wanted to see for myself if you were legit. You are."
Later that day, I barely touched the dinner Kay made, and for several days after that, she barely touched me.
Women have the patience of saints, especially when their men do dumb, macho shit, like eatin' giant submarine sandwiches for instance.
