The Smell of the Pizza Sub
by Bruce Dore (Dorébrucedore@yahoo.com)
"You can't get a sandwich like this just anywhere," he reminds me, without hesitation, "You know what ingredient they forget about? Hehh Brucie? The love. I put the love into each and every one of my sandwiches. All those bastards care about is moneymaking. Moneymaking!"
"Sure," I agree, as he prepares a ham and cheese for a particularly dubious-looking customer, "Moneymaking. Terrible."
A lifetime career of preparing submarine sandwiches had not been kind to Steve Galliani, owner of the eponymous Steve's Sub Shop. In 1974, when he was a naive immigrant and unaware of the power of franchise, he thought he could solve all the world's problems with a well-sliced salami. Now 51, jaded, and desperate, he has to resort to cheap gimmicks to compete with the big name shops across town.
"I give you flyers, ok? You put up at highschool. Tell the boys and girls about old Stevie, will you? Besta sub in town. Besta sub in town. Make sure you tell them about Fish and Chip Tuesday."
His demeanour takes a turn for the worse at the mention of battered seafood.
"Fish and Chip Tuesday. Can you believe it? After twenty-eight years of making sandwiches. Fish and Chip Tuesday." He goes on to mutter unintelligibly and shake his head for several minutes.
Perhaps appropriately placed between a derelict apartment building and an illegal massage parlour, Steve's Sub Shop is rarely approached by anyone with better than a grade school reading level. The posters in the interior of the store read like a history of the failed efforts of fast food marketing: plastered on the yellowed naval-theme wallpaper are advertisements for 'Gyros! The Greek Treat', 'Spicy Curly Potato Fries', and 'New Coke'. Sitting in a plastic chair the colour of radioactive waste, Galliani resumes his denunciation of the submarine franchises as an inebriated hobo staggers into the shop.
"Ah, Nealie boy!" he yells too loudly at the vagrant, “You want some meat? I give you some meat. Good meat. Not like down at Subway. Subway they give you horse meat! Horse MEAT!"
Neal "I Lost My Writing Career To Crack Cocaine" Pollack mumbles an incoherent reply that probably translates to, “I’ll show you my horse meat, jackass--right up your fucking asshole,” as he accepts a thick piece of ham, Galliani's idea of philanthropy.
"They take all my customers! Goddamn Subway! All of them! All I have left is you, Neal--a crack-smoking, good-for-nothing, shit-covered bum. A bum!"
As he sobs with his head in his hands, it occurs to me that Steve Galliani is the type of man who repeats himself, just to ensure he gets his point across. It also occurs to me that Neal Pollack, while indeed covered with human excrement, embodies all that is true and good in this world. Galliani’s muttering and sobbing continues, now accompanied by the noisy chewing of ham and the loud slapping of furious hobo masturbation.
Galliani isn't completely discouraged, however; he still finds joy in his craft. It takes only a well-timed request for a submarine to brighten his spirits.
"You want the pizza sub, right? Ahh, Brucie. You always did love the pizza sub, eh?"
Not certain what he's talking about, I nod my head in agreement.
"I give you extra sauce. Special for you. Extra sauce. How about that, eh Brucie?"
"That sounds great, Steve."
"And I warm it up for you. Warm it up. You know, the pizza sub is the most demanding of the subs. The sauce and the meat must be in perfect balance to one another. And the cheese. Ohhh the cheese. The cheese has to be under, you see? So it melts when you warm it up: and it must be warmed up. Some people they say--I don't want my pizza sub warmed up and so I say if you are eating the pizza sub you are warming it up first or you can get the hell out of my store, you see? First the cheese and then the meat and then the sauce--extra sauce, special for you. You see? So many people maybe put the sauce on first and then the cheese and meat, or first the meat and then the sauce and no cheese, or even put double the cheese and half the meat and maybe too much sauce, you see? yes? It is the most de-"
He is interrupted by a loud beep from the microwave. Taking out the fruits of his labour, he emits a low guttural sound, indicative of his approval.
"Ohhh the smell! The smell of the pizza sub! Wonderful! Smell that and tell me that she doesn't smell good, Brucie," he instructs as he thrusts the open bag towards my nostrils.
I take the bag in my hands and put my nose right up to the opening. Inhaling deeply I reply, "That's a fine smelling sandwich, Steve. A fine smelling sandwich."
"That will be five seventy three! Now take it and get the hell out of my store! What the fuck? Did that goddamn bum come in my sub sauce again? Get the fuck out! All of you! Out you fuckers!"
