Stood Up At The Gas Station Subway: A Lament
Sometimes this job involves standing on the green at St. Andrews in the shadow of a century-old hotel as the sun sets beyond the far grandstands, gulls swooping in the purple and pink sky on breezes from the North Sea. And sometimes this job involves sitting in a plastic booth in an anonymous gas-station Subway in the middle of nowhere, South Carolina, listening to an awful dance remix of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” and waiting two hours on a source that never shows. What a difference two weeks makes, huh?
Bitter? Nah. It’s part of the gig. Connections missed, messages garbled. Plus, it all makes for great scene for the eventual article. Or, at the very least, a chance to try a new Carolina BBQ joint. No offense, Subway.