Eat Fresh

The door to the late model Buick swung open and the first thing I saw was his feet.

And then, like a telescope unfolding and revealing it’s hidden length, he stood in segments; first the lower legs, next his thick thighs, followed by the elongated trunk, one arm and then the other. He was wearing an Auburn ball cap, its bill pushed back a little revealing rivulets of sweat forming on his forehead in response to the rising heat of an early Alabama summer. He was six foot seven if he was an inch. But as he pivoted toward the door of the Subway Sandwich Shop on Governors Drive, I saw that his height wasn’t his only prodigious proportion.

For only in profile could one truly appreciate the full measure of the man. His anterior-posterior diameter, that line tracing the shortest distance from his navel to the curvy “S” of his lower spine, was seemingly a full third of his height. His was a belly of broad distinction, an award-garnering gut that stuck out even in these Southern-fried-everything parts. With his way-too-short polo rising up and his belt buckle disappearing somewhere beneath the multiple folds of flesh, he held his arms high and stretched, tilting his head back and his face up, basking in the bright summer sun.

And then I noticed that his lips, firmly pressed together, were starting to work around in little circles and his jaw was beginning to move up and down. I knew in a flash what was coming next. With the prospect of yet another meal on the near horizon, he was about to do what any self-respecting Southern man would do under such promising and happy circumstances.

He was working up a good one and preparing to spit.

He looked one way and then another for somewhere safe to launch his loogie. The parking spot next to his Buick was empty, so I was expecting him to expectorate to his right and was already charting a course around the potential hazard in my path. But then he did something totally unexpected, and now, in retrospect, a little insane. He leaned forward–but not forward enough–and spat directly toward the ground in front of him.

He realized his mistake immediately and stopped dead in his tracks. After an embarrassed glance to the left and then his right (he didn’t see me directly behind him), he reached down, and with a swipe of his massive paw, brushed away the large circle of moisture now formed on the front of his shirt.

Trying to put what I had just witnessed out of my mind, I followed him into the Subway and stood behind him in line as I prepared to order my 6″ steak and cheese on whole wheat. He scanned the menu, still rubbing his shirt, and then glanced toward a poster of Jared–and smiled. The bespectacled Jared–patron saint of miraculous body makeovers–held up those big britches of his and smiled back.

“What’ll you have sir?” the nice lady behind the counter chirped.

“A 6″ tuna on whole wheat,” he replied. “Oh, and hold the chips.”

Eat fresh.