[Temporal Divergence – G.]

You see, there are few random Subway sandwich artists from twenty-five years in your past that you still think about. Let alone ones you might think about on a semi-regular basis. I’m here to share the tale of one of these minimum wage employees from multiple decades ago, who has in fact managed to shake me to my core.

It’s story of gusto. One of terror, and commitment to attempted murder in a cold cut trio of vengeance on Italian herb n’ cheese.

It started with an innocent visit to Subway in Bradley, Illinois on a hapless eve. It was Popcorn, Aaron Moore, and me. I can’t recall the specific food orders, but it matters not. The ghoulishness from a nihilistic fast-food worker, in an instant, set the tone for the rest of the night, and quite frankly for the rest of my life.

This particular employee while ringing us up, decided to haphazardly pick up a stapler and begin to inject staples into his arm. Pop pop pop. One after another, without any sort of semblance of a dare or any conflict whatsoever. At least six staples. Maybe more.

It was jarring and unprompted. He expressed no reaction that would represent physical pain. All three of us were immediately taken aback. There was no one else in the shop other than the framed headshot photo of Jared Fogal looking down at his minion with approval.

“Like…wait. What?! Dude!”

“Holy shit, man! – What are you doing?!”

Our utter shock caused him to shrug has he took a beat. He then began to pull the staples out of his arm, one by one as we watched in horror.

As his blood began streaming down his forearm, our disgust grew to an alarming level. Not only was this not some sort of Kinkos supply closeted sadomasochism, but he was literally handling our food. This wasn’t Milton Waddums with his red Swingline. This was some random guy who may or may not have had hepatitis or HIV. We had no idea, man.

Even if he wasn’t suffering from a bloodborne pathogen, as a collective, A-Mo, Popcorn and I quickly unified in the stance that we just didn’t want a strangers blood anywhere near anything we were about to ingest.

He played it off as if it wasn’t a sanitary issue of any sort. He wiped the blood off with his bare hand and decided to play it cool as if nothing had happened. With his bloody hand he then grabbed a cup to serve us for a Mountain Dew fountain drink.

“Like… naw dude, that’s fucked up, man!”

We decided that we were not going to pay for the foot longs or Sun Chips and we were going to leave. Our post adolescent, early twenties selves were not going to leave quietly.

He argued that we needed to pay for our food.

“Staple Arm… we are leaving.”

This mild yet appropriate insult of a new nickname was enough of a Nordic herding call for this guy to literally run around the sandwich counter as he charged after us in a gratuitous, unnecessary rage. As we were midway out the door, we caught it in our periphery that he wasn’t stopping. It wasn’t a bluff. He kept running toward us.

In a moment’s strike, we consciously realized if this dude is pumping tetanus laced staples into his own arm, the split-second thought occurred – what is he going to do to us?!

We hightailed it. Being probably 40 lineal feet ahead of him we we’re able to hop in my forest green Nissan Pathfinder and skid the fuck out of there. We saw him get in his muscle car and peel out after us. We were far enough ahead that we lost him after just a few blocks of twisting turns about the cold Bradley streets.

You might think the story ends here.

But boredom combined with the need for a rush caused a sequel a few nights later. There was always a Part Two. As the reader, you should know this. Most people would have simply avoided going back to that specific Subway. But we weren’t the type of crew to leave “well enough” alone. God knows there were a few other Subways we could have just went to. But that wasn’t quite our style at the time.

Enter David Bottema.

The master contingent to push anything over scale from balance to bedlam and uproar.

No stranger to high-speed hijinks in the Zoomobile, this guy just made us all look like amateurs in the realm of harassment. After hearing the story of Staple Arm, instead of shock and awe, Dave’s only response was: take me over there.

On this fateful night it was me, Dave, Melissa Egeland, and Amber Cole with Aaron Moore driving his parents’ conversion van. We crept up to the Subway parking lot, headlights off. Dave exited the vehicle via sliding side door and sauntered into the fast-food chain beneath the warm yellow glow of neon.

We could see enough through the glass doors that all he did raise hand with a point of his finger in order to state, “Staple Arm.”

No sooner had he uttered the phrase was he turning tale and gunning it back outside.

Staple Arm, catapulting himself over the bins of tomatoes and cheese triangles, in an aerial swan dive, dropped on to the linoleum. He gave chase like a battle damage Skeletor. Neglecting any customer who happened to be standing there, and surely terrifying any existing diners and coworkers, he tore through the Subway restaurant. The crazy person beamed directly out the door on Dave’s heels like a nothing-to-lose jaguar on the hungry prowl for red meat. 

The adrenaline kicked in and the option between fight and flight was no choice at all. Dave barrel rolled in the van, and we took off before the door even closed. Like Five Dollar Foot Long déjà vu, once again Staple Arm quickly got in his mullet car, but this time he was immediately on our bumper.

It was then that we lent all our trust and hope to Aaron. After our Subway double-down I was fully convinced this Staple Arm character had zero sense of mercy. We had decidedly poked the bear with a stick. And it was on.

Aaron tagged the gas and zoomed about and after some residential zig-zagging we ended up on North Street. The crazed lunatic was not yet lost as we approached a red light. As we sat at the light in a panicked state, Staple Arm threw his vehicle in park, got out and ran up to our van. As he attempted to pry open the locked door, the girls we were with emoted blood curdling screams.

To their credit, they had never before been involved in a Kankakee County car chase like we had. This was old hat to bored male Kankakee townie punks. We were veterans, yet nothing to the likes of this degree. Staple Arm banged on the windows no doubt with attempt to shatter.

As soon as mathematically possible Aaron gunned it through the red light, at first dragging the dude as he refused to let go of the door handle, then leaving him as a shadowy meatball sub lying on the arterial street in our exhaust.

For a brief respite, we assumed it was over. We watched in sheer terror through the rear window, as he rose from the dead, and got right back in his car. Like fucking evil T-1000 he was unphased. His staples as liquid metal merging with his murderous bones like Adamantium. Our escape recharged his psychotic energy. He gunned it straight ahead with his race car, right back in pursuit – not one thought given to the hungry Subway customers he left behind mid-shift as the drag race pursued.

As the tire screeching chase went on, Aaron meticulously operated that van like a surgeon. I’ve never seen anything like it before or since. Peeling out, burning rubber, creating a maze that became impossible to replicate while tossing us all from one side of the vehicle to the other. It was a feat to rival any car chase in any action movie. When we saw no more headlights behind us, Aaron parallel parked and cut the van lights in a neighborhood.

After waiting long enough we finally caught our breath as we knew we had lost him. We congratulated Aaron on a harrowing near death escape performed in clocklike precision. It was phenomenal.

But we knew Staple Arm now had positive ID. And we knew the Friendship Festival was coming to town in the Summer. We knew he would be out for blood.

Waiting. Stewing. Searching in cold malice.

You see, Staple Arm would never drop his stapler. It was emblematic of unyielding resolve. Staples as an extension of will rather than just a weapon. It symbolized holding onto carnage.

Sadism aroused in the heat of battle.