weef 🏳️‍🌈

once per month i allow myself to enter into an alternate personality i refer to as “the monkey” in which i give in to all of my ape brain desires without personal judgment or fear of consequence. often this ends with me going to mcdonalds and eating a 20 piece nugget and 2 big macs in my car in the parking lot but on particularly autistic occasions i tend to freestyle. tonight was one of my “monkey nights” and my biological requirement for subway was irresistible. i drove 45 minutes out of town as i knew my behavior would be unacceptable. it was here i made my move. the sandwich artist had never been through an employee training module to prepare him for this terror. entering the establishment, i initially confirmed that i was the only patron. i then approached the counter, my eyes glazed over. i did not speak. i did not make any facial expressions. i simply pointed at each item that i desired. the sandwich artist did not understand. i point to the bread. he approaches it. “this one sir?” i flick my wrist slightly to the left. i have clearly indicated an italian footlong. i hold my pose, continuing to point at the bread until he correctly identifies it. he brings the bread to the condiments. I point again. he hesitates. his arm lurches forward, then just as quickly returns, guarded to his chest. he is on the defensive. i have not blinked nor spoken a single word. “what meat would you like tonight?” his training has overridden his fight or flight instinct. i point to the beef. his hand hovers over it. he reaches in and grabs his first handful. i continue to point. he places the handful on the bread. i continue to point. his arm reaches back to the meat in its tin container. “you want double?” i can hear the fear in his voice. i point at the meat. he grabs the meat and places it again upon the sandwich. i point next to the cheese. he moves to the cheese. he does not ask which cheese. he belongs to me now. his hand maneuvers over the swiss. well done. i point next to the onions. he looks at me for a moment. a pregnant pause. he seems to want to speak. but he doesn’t. he is the monkey now with me. he grabs the onions. i lower my hand. he waits motionless. i lift my other arm and point to the oven. i betray nothing with my stare. my posture is strong. my deltoid is flexed effortlessly to extend my arm, merely a vessel to communicate what my brain so desires. he understands me explicitly. he moves to the oven. i move two steps to the right, down the assembly line. there is nobody else in this store. he is aware of the danger he faces. i continue to point at my desired toppings. upon completion of the sandwich, there is tension in the air. irrelevant to my desires. i approach the cash register. i then double back to the beginning of the line. i point at the sugar cookie. he approaches the cookies. he grasps the chocolate chip cookie. in an instant, i have transformed my pointing hand into a thumbs down. he gasps. he drops the cookie as if it were molten rock. i walk calmly back to the register. i pay $25 for a sandwich and a cookie. i leave no tip. i leave the store in silence and drive home listening to ben folds five. it is only after fully ingesting the sandwich that i realize i pointed silently at my doorman instead of greeting him upon entering my apartment. i lock my doors and play kingdom come deliverance 2 while wearing silk underwear