Once a month corporate visits Subway, sending forth the same fear and foreboding its utterance elicits on NBC’s “The Office.” Someone comes in, watches us, takes notes, snoops through our cooler and freezer, bread box and temperature logs, and insists on leaving a six-foot-party-sub sized list of errors and areas requiring our immediate attention.

However ridiculous it seems, it is nonetheless a terrifying and aggravating experience, knowing that I’m about to be critiqued for doing a job that earns me seven dollars an hour by someone with a real job and a real paycheck. It’s hard to take a critique seriously when all that’s at stake is my unlimited access to Subway food and a few hundred dollars a month – needs that can each be satisfied elsewhere. But without fail, the pride I take in my work, however menial, kicks in and I’m forced to produce perfection (in the form of a submarine sandwich) under pressure.

Or so I thought. Apparently Subway feels that the ham should go after the salami and pepperoni on the BMT sandwich. And that three teeny, tiny olives spaced across the vast expanse of a six-inch sub is sufficient. According to the almighty corporate, I put fourteen olives on, one less tomato than stated in the rules (which, by the way, ignore the size and shape of each tomato slice) and should have made three straight lines of dressing across the meat instead of opting for the aesthetically pleasing zigzags. But go ahead, reprimand and embarrass me for living up to my proud title of sandwich artist. Take for granted the fact that I have morals and a conscience and a lack of phlegm in my throat. Go ahead and give me that dirty look.

I’ve never understood why people, and corporate especially, think they have the right to voice the displeasure they’re unfairly having to suffer to those currently serving them.

You wouldn’t give your brain surgeon a dirty look in the final seconds before your anesthesia kicked in. So why would you scoff when I get too generous with the mayonnaise? You shouldn’t. Because in the final moments of our sub creation journey together, while you’re diverting your attention to scoping out your favorite flavor of calories and trans fat from the chip rack, I’m mustering all of my strength and wrapping your sandwich. With each layer of sub wrap I add, I am forfeiting the opportunity to conduct a most perfect revenge by adding more than mayo to your food.

So smile. Watch me until your sub is safely in its plastic bag before you direct your attention to the freshly baked macadamia nut cookies (which by the way might just be the leftovers from yesterday). Compliment me on my art or my overall presence in general. Try saying things like, “Hot damn! Datsagoodsub,” and “You’re beautiful and talented and deserve more than seven dollars an hour for your fine labor.” If I think you’re being sincere I just might forget about the extra cheese you asked for and the fact that you want to substitute a bottled beverage for the fountain drink. If that isn’t incentive enough, think about the ease and comfort in which you’ll get to enjoy your sub, knowing that it’s just the mayo you taste.

Kristine Gill is a sophomore pre-journalism major and a columnist for the Daily Kent Stater. Contact her at [email protected].