Hickory, Dickery, Doc, the Humorous Side of Getting Hangry:
“I hate cops!” A statement no law enforcement officer wants to hear from the person making their lunch. But it happens. That’s why any time I was on duty, I would always eat at establishments where I could watch my food being made.
It allowed me to observe and ask questions when things didn’t seem right like:
“What’s wrong with the roast beef in the container on the counter, it looks like you’re picking mine up off the floor?” or,
“Why is that jar marked ‘Special Mayonnaise’? Can’t I have the mayo out of the Hellman’s jar?”
I’d like to say I was always vigilant but, I do have a condition which sometimes interferes with my judgement. I’m certain you’ve all experienced it yourselves on a regular basis.
The Condition:
‘Hangry’, a term that has come to be synonymous with being hungry and exhibiting the following symptoms:
- Anxiety
- Irritability
- Decreased Brain Function
I’m usually mild-mannered. But, when my blood sugar drops and I get hangry, I might check all three of those boxes faster than light can travel the length of a gnats eyelash. You’d think that it occurs more often though based on how much time my wife, Cindy, spends researching this condition. She, in fact, discovered what she thinks is the correct behavioral term for ‘hangry ‘ and often refers to it in my presence:
“You’re being Dickish!
My Point:
I’m no doctor but I’ll play one in real life. I’ll give my expert medical opinion on just about everything I know nothing about and in my opinion, my Dickery is not the problem when I’m hangry! The real problem is that everyone around me suddenly becomes irrational and irritating when I’m hungry. That makes it a THEM problem not a ME problem and I invite you to decide for yourselves.
“Some day…after I am dead, you may perhaps come to learn the right and wrong of this.” -Robert Louis Stevenson’s, ‘The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde’
I present to you the following incident that demonstrates my point flawlessly and I’m positive you’ll decide the right or wrong of it long before I’m dead.
….
The Incident:
While on duty, in full uniform, working for the Highway Patrol, I suddenly realize I’m getting hungry…really hungry. People were going to start antagonizing me if I don’t get food, and fast! I need to go somewhere close with quick service that provides full viewing of my lunch assembly. Subway, perfect! I hope they’re not too busy.
Realizing time is of the essence, I rehearse my order as I walk through the front door. Once inside I see it isn’t busy at all. In fact, there is no one there, no customers but also no employees. I instantly feel deflated like someone just gut-punched me. ‘I rehearsed my order and everything’.
After waiting 40 minutes, no one came out to take my order… alright, in retrospect the 40 minutes was more like 18 seconds. Regardless, I can feel my anxiety ballooning already. I’m getting hangry and, oh, the Dickery that will ensue.
As a trained investigator, I immediately assume the place is being robbed and all of the customers and employees are tied up in the back. But none of that’s my problem. This particular Subway is within the city limits. A city with its own police department to deal with shit like that. What is my problem, however, is getting someone to come out and make my lunch. I care not if it’s a Subway employee or Patty Hearst; somebody’s making me a damn sandwich. We can probably que the irritability at this point.
I begin pacing around the dining area mumbling something about ‘how hard is it just to stand behind the counter and wait for customers to show up’. My internal clock driven by anxiety is racing, hours were ticking by. The clock on the wall indicates only two minutes have passed; the clock is probably broken.
Aside from launching a few rounds into the ceiling tiles, I have to find a way to get someone’s attention. I begin moving chairs around sliding them noisely on the floor and casually banging them into the tables. “Hmmm, nothing. Seriously?”
Then I let out a barrage of throat-clearing ‘eh-hems’. Still nothing! I walk to the beverage fridge and open and close the door in rapid succession, ‘Whump-slam, whump-slam, whump-slam’. On the last ‘whump’ I retrieve a chocolate milk then slam the door harder. Good grief! It’s the next day already! Where is everyone?..Anyone? (Again, it’s only been about three minutes since I walked through the front door.)
My throat is tightening, my hands, neck and face are tingling and my ears are turning red and burning. I’m also breaking out in a cold sweat with a mixture of emotions between slight panic and a bit of anger. I was four years old the last time I threw a tantrum, I kinda feel one coming on that’s had 44 years to brew.
I shuffle about the dining area with my chocolate milk and walk to the counter and slam my chocolate milk down. Leaning on the counter mostly for support but also to get a better look at the kitchen area to see if anyone was face down on the floor. I was searching for any clue as to where my sandwich maker might be. I begin ‘motorboating’, blowing air through my pursed lips, loud, louder, more louder, so louder people across the street could hear me. ‘Oh come on! Do I have to jump the counter and make my own sandwich F.F.S.!!??”
To my right is the tater chip stand. I grabbed a bag of Hickory Smoked BBQ Lays chips and manipulate the bag in my hands so as to make that annoying crinkling noise. The harder I squeeze, the louder and more annoying it gets. If this doesn’t work I’ll likely have to resort to launching those rounds into the ceiling tiles.
I slam the bag of chips back into the tater chip rack, and may or may not have been reaching for my holster when, to my surprise, a figure appears. The figure slothfully exits the kitchen area wearing a Subway apron. I feel a sudden rush of relief, a very short rush of relief because what isn’t rushing is the apron clad Subway employee.
I let out a low grumble as the employee dashes at a turtles pace to offer service. ‘There’s something not quite right with this woman: lethargic, droopy faced, eyelids at half mast, she better hurry up and make my sandwich before whatever medical problem she’s having gets worse.’ I thought…out loud.
The Dickery:
‘Whatever the issue is, she is making the effort at least, let’s get this over with.’, I thought. Having rehearsed my order I immediately blurt out, “I’ll have a footlong roast beef and swiss on wheat!” I nailed it, hit all the major elements of my sandwic…
“What kind of bread do you want?” She said, in a very slow drawl.
Me: Confused at how she could possibly be confused, “Wheat”, I said.
Her: “What kind of BREAD do you want?”
Me: No less confused, “WHEAT!”
Her: In a loud, excited tone I didn’t expect from her former demeanor, “I SAID, WHAT KIND OF BREAD DO YOU WANT!?”
Me: Screaming with spittle flying from my mouth, “WHEAT! I WANT WHEAT! I WANT A FOOTLONG ROAST BEEF AND SWISS ON WHEAT! WHEEEEEAAAT! WHEAT BREAD!”
Her: More quietly, “Oh…I thought you were saying ‘what’.”
My breathing is getting rapid, chest heaving, teeth clenching and a cacophony of growling coming from my stomach and my throat. Good Lord, I’m like a rabid dog. All I can do is stare, frustrated and now angry at this women. As she procures a loaf of bread from the tray behind her, I begin to calm down a bit; lunch, after all, is on the…
“What kind of meat do you want?” She asked in her slow drawl I was quickly growing weary of.
Me: “What!”, I offered as more of a statement than a question.
Her: “No sir, I know what kind of bread you want, I asked what kind of meat?”
Me: “I didn’t say WHEAT! I said WHAT! As in, how could you not know WHAT kind of meat? I told you two times, the second time I was literally screaming in your face!! I want a footlong ROAST BEEF and swiss on wheat!”
The Subway sandwich maker, (and I use that term loosely), looks down and shakes her head. I however, reach over to the tater chip rack and grab the Hickory BBQ chip bag I had a former relationship with. I’m flabbergasted. ‘How is this so hard? It’s a fucking sandwich!’, I may or may not have said out loud.
I have the bag of chips clasped between my hands, squeezing, harder and harder, expecting..no, no, hoping to explode the bag. Perhaps Hickory BBQ chips raining down on us like confetti might improve both of our moods. But I’m too hungry and lack the physical strength to pop the bag. I slam the chip bag back on the rack. Hickory Chips and I seem to be having an abusive relationship.
Her: One eye almost closed, the other shaded heavily by a flickering eyelid, “Cheese? Do you want cheese?”
Me: “Cheese? Cheese? Do I want cheese? Do you have swiss lettuce back there? Swiss tomatoes? Swiss mayonnaise? I want SWISS as in a footlong roast beef and SWISS on wheat. So yeah, I want cheese, swiss cheese!”
She is slowly moving her arms doing something, I wouldn’t know, I’m fixated on her face and realize, ‘Oh, good grief, she’s stoned! No wonder she took so long to get out here, she was on a “smoke break.” ‘Well, that’s also none of my business, this is within the city limits, they have police to deal with this shit too. What IS my business, however, is getting my lunch before all Dickery brakes loose.
Her: “Do you want…”
Me: “No! No I don’t! Let’s just put an end to this.”, assuming she was going to ask about veggies and “special sauces”.
It’s only taken her nine hours to make a sandwich, (again, again it’s been maybe 10 minutes since I walked through the door).
I’m salivating as I watch my paper wrapped sedative slide towards the register. My mood is improving by leaps and bounds by the second. She rings up my lunch order. Feeling guilty but certainly not responsible for how this whole event transpired, I give the woman a 50% tip. Looking down she said in a low voice, “Thank you.” She then looks up, wide eyed, which I didn’t think was possible, and said in a very loud tone, “I HATE COPS!”
Decreased Brain Function ✓:
At that moment, I realized that not once during the 36 hour, (okay, 6 minute), sandwich assembly did I ever look down at what she was doing. This was literally the one reason I went to Subway in the first place. I guess the worst she could have done was put Drano® in my sandwich. The chocolate milk will certainly coat my innards protecting them from any harm, (I give myself unqualified medical advice as well).
I responded to her vitriol with, “I assume our little interaction here didn’t change your mind any?”
She replied with a definitive, “No! No it has not!” She then slothfully shuffled back to the kitchen and beyond, presumably to resume her smoke break.
I sit in the empty Subway enjoying my 6 inch, ham and provolone on white bread. The sandwich, although not what I ordered, is untainted, delicious and is apparently just what I deserve.
Now please, don’t go blowing up the comments section on how horrible this woman treated me; she was just doing the best she could. I guess it was partially my fault for going in there hungry. But, I’ll leave it up to you to decide the right or wrong of it.
