Life is not easy being a submarine sandwich investigative journalist. The sandwich game is dry in Charlottesville — the old joints are vanishing, and every cohort of first-years endures more bowl-based food. Slop in a trough. All my buddies have moved onto bigger and better things — bagels, for example. But as a longtime Subway fanatic myself, it was a dream come true to have a woman in a comically large hat strut into The Cavalier Daily office. The cigarette butt lazily hanging off my lips nearly fell to the floor when she exclaimed that she had a story. A sandwich story.
I tipped my fedora in her direction and snapped my paper closed, ready to receive her. I motioned for her to sit, but she refused. I noted this, as submarine sandwich investigative journalists do.
“Do I have a story for you. You remember Littlejohn’s, the submarine sandwich parlor down by the Corner?” Her New York accent was stronger than the stench of her perfume. Seagull’s Kiss, I presumed…