So I found a Mr. Submarine not too far away on Lincoln Avenue. It's a smalltime addiction that I formed one summer while I was spending much of my time on the southside. Every so often, on my way to Spanish class, I tiptoe into Mr. Submarine and order the real thing, the Mr. Submarine sandwich stacked with all sorts of submarine goo and cold-cuts. The dude who runs this particular sandwich shop keeps a squinted eye on me. It's as if he knows normally I order snobby sandwiches with brie and alfalfa sprouts. That normally I like my whole grains. That I don't really have heartfelt respect for salami.

Him: You want a soda with that? (In disbelief).
Me: Yes... (I had just ordered one).
Him: What size?
Me: A small (I had said that too).
Him: I'm out of small cups. (He had pulled this last time).
Me: Well then can you please fill a medium cup with a small amount of soda? (I'm totally on to him).
Him: What do you want on the sandwich?
Me: Everything. (I'm indulging here.)
Him: (Looking at me suspiciously) Do you want mayonnaise?
Me: Yep.
Him: Mustard?
Me: Everything.

A woman at one of the tables, in the middle of an impassioned conversation actually shouted, "I hate liars!" The man handed me my sandwich and a few napkins and nodded in agreement.