I couldn’t wait to dig into a meatball sub. I swung around the doorway into Rocky’s with an anticipatory joie-de-vivre that close friends know to associate with an imminent hot sandwich. I approached the counter, as I had done in years past, but was turned away. “You have to order at the kiosk now,” a worker told me. I already didn’t like this — it was an interruption in my well-planned sandwich workflow, which is designed as follows:
Walk into store → ask for a sandwich → pay for a sandwich → thoroughly enjoy a sandwich
But adaptability is a valuable trait, and I was willing to comply with this bold new kiosk paradigm if this was the new path to hoagie acquisition.
I ordered my 6-inch white bread with meatballs, marinara, and provolone, added onions and mushrooms, found the “no dressing” option nestled between “Italian” and “Ranch”, and proceeded to checkout. This was stupid, but not so terrible. Upon finding out that I had selected the sandwich app for meal swipes and not Dining Dollars, I had to go back and start from scratch. I reordered my 6-inch white bread and this time added some banana peppers for a kick. After expertly remembering where the “no dressing” option was, I selected water from a hidden submenu underneath the Diet Pepsi option, and proceeded to checkout.
After swiping my student ID, I was prompted to enter my phone number. This was clearly information that shouldn’t factor into the creation of my meatball sub — at least, this was my assumption, as somewhat of a sandwich fabrication layman. Sheep that I am, I complied, and was understandably even more aghast when the next screen asked me for the 4-digit code I had been texted.
“7819”
‘Seriously?’ I wondered. I was pretty exasperated. Under the previous system, I would have been halfway through my meal by this point. I was soothed only by the feeling of security that came with knowing that nobody else could take my 2FA-protected sandwich.
“Two-factor authentication accepted. You must now answer these riddles three.”
‘Are you shitting me?’ I thought, exasperated. My two-year streak of abstinence from The Wok had done wonders for my gut microbiome and general well-being, but General Tso seemed increasingly appealing.
“Riddle Number One: What is your name?”
‘Oh’, I thought, ‘This is like that Monty Python joke.’ My favorite color is orange and the airspeed velocity of a European swallow is 20.1 mph. With these answers on hand, I knew I was well on my way towards earning my meatball sub.
Vexed though I was, I entered “Jacob W.” The kiosk buffered.
A casual acquaintance and classmate waltzed by, straight to the checkout counter.
“Hey — you’ll have to order through this kiosk,” I said. I didn’t want them to waste time.
“I have TSA Precheck,” they said, flashing a grin and a binder of documents. “I don’t have to worry about it.”
They swaggered up to the counter with a confidence I wouldn’t have expected from them, given their lackluster comments in PHIL 101.
After presenting their pre-check documents and completing a biometric iris scan, they were awarded their roast beef sandwich and Mel sauce with distinction.
Jealous, I returned to my own sandwich test. I was on riddle number two.
“What thrives when you feed it, but dies when you water it?”
This wasn’t much of a head-scratcher, but as a genuine riddle, it seemed pretty far removed from the concept of a sandwich.
I typed in “fire,” but was rejected. Huh. Once I figured out that the response box was case-specific, I entered “A Fire,” and was on to the third riddle.
“What does it mean to BE Jacob W?”
I might not be getting that sandwich after all. Spiraling into an identity crisis and still pretty hungry, I almost didn’t notice the small button in the bottom corner: “I am not a robot.”
‘That’ll do,’ I thought, and proved my newly defined identity by finding all the pictures with stoplights in them.
At this point, the kiosk timed out, and I had to insert two quarters to start it up again. I elected not to round my purchase up to the nearest dollar to support Grubhub’s mission to buy a nicer office, and was told that my sandwich would be ready in seven minutes.
When I took the first chomp into my hard-earned meatball sub with a single piece of provolone and skimpy dollop of marinara, I shed a single bittersweet tear. It was beautiful — a perfectly satisfactory sandwich, and it was clear I was eating the work of a master. It was sad to know that this would be my last of such indulgences, as there was no way in hell I would be returning to deal with that kiosk.
