让我们成为朋友 (≧◡≦) ♡

I feel like that waiter in the cartoons who is never told "when" as he grates fresh parmesan onto someone's pasta. The plate is just a mound of grated cheese. The table is covered in cheese. The room fills with cheese. But my room is filled with ranch dressing.I ran out.

And she says, "Do you have another bottle?"

My soul exits my body as I continue to squirt ranch dressing onto her "sandwich." It's more of an open-face soup at this point. I look up at her, expecting her to tell me to stop. She doesn't. She wants more. Her friends are looking over like *wtf sis*

I add more. At this point the cheese, the only other thing on the bread, is nearly obscured. She's irritated now. "Just keep going." I stare at her, refillable squeeze bottle in hand. "You want... more than this?"

Her: "Yeah, I'll tell you when to stop."
I continue. I am in disbelief. After a few more passes with the bottle, the dressing is beginning to run off the sides of the bread. I look up at her. She does this motion *go on*

Now I'm not denying people who have the tastebuds of a toddler the privilege of watching your sandwich come together before your very eyes behind a curved pane of glass covered with the fingerprints and sneezes of those who came before them. They deserve Subway too. However, this girl wanted ranch dressing. So I put ranch (two lines) on her sandwich. "More please." I put two more lines of ranch on her sandwich. "More please." I put another two lines. Her: (visibly annoyed) "More than that." I am beginning to become concerned.

This early dinnertime shift (5-6pm), there were three of us working the line, all 20-somethings, because at the time all the "big adults" had quit or been fired. (Our store was run by kids for about a month.) A group of high school-aged kids came in. I served the second girl in the group. She wanted a footlong on white bread, cool. Double provolone and double American cheese, I can respect that. Does she want it toasted? No. Veggies? No. Sauce? Yes, ranch please.