If you didn’t know already, I happen to work the night shift at the vast American food chain that is Subway. Unless you live under a rock or outside of the United States, you’ve probably heard of it. If not, it’s considered by many (but not all, the heathens) to be a magical place where one may acquire delicious foot-long sandwiches. A formerly obese man by the name of Jared swears by them.
Anyway, on the night shift we get all types: the studiers, the intoxicated, the late night workers, the regulars… the list goes on. I serve them all with the same ready smile and efficiency of a good ol’ Subway employee — except this one guy.
We call him the Cookie Monster. The Cookie Monster looks to be in his mid-forties with greasy spiked black hair. He normally comes in every night around 11:00 PM, breathing heavily and wearing a tracksuit. Every night he wants one thing: a chocolate chip cookie.
Cookies are tricky little things. They normally take about 45 minutes to make and bake. Then you have to wait for them to cool, clean the oven, and clean the dishes. Cumulatively they take about an hour and a half to create and then clean up. Despite being a bit of a hassle, they’re absolutely delicious. Now people, we stop making cookies pretty early in the evening and they run out fast. So if you want one, come in before 9:00 PM. The Cookie Monster just doesn’t seem to understand this fact of life, and people, it’s a fact of life — the cookies run out by 9:00 PM. We won’t make more and I won’t save you one unless you are my friend and you ask for one in advance and promise that you’ll come visit me.
As I’m standing at the register he huffs and he puffs up to me, sweating slightly, and asks me for a cookie. I look, but just as I expected we’re out. After I politely turn him down, he normally starts yelling or offering money… or other things.
“I’ll give you fifty bucks if you make me some cookies.” No. “I know there’s cookies in the back that you’re hiding from me!” Um. No. “Damn college students always eating all the goddamn fucking cookies!” I’m sorry sir, I wish I could help you. “If you give me a cookie, I’ll get my girls to dance for you…” First of all, dude, I’m a girl. Second of all, no thank you. Third, WE DON’T HAVE ANY COOKIES.
After yelling and then pacing back and forth a little while, he normally leaves in a huff. Every night, people. He comes in every night. At the same time, with the same expectations, and every night he gets shut down. According to Einstein, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing again and again and expecting a different result. Based on this definition, I’d venture to say that the Cookie Monster might be a bit crazy. So let this be a warning to you all: If you want a cookie from the Subway under BU’s Warren Towers, come in before 9:00 PM. Oh, and dancing girls don’t count as legal tender.