Can I Get a Witness?

My mom and dad have been here for the past week. They rented a cabin in the mountains about ten minutes from Woodland Park where I used to work. Thursday evening, my mom and I headed into town to grab take-out for dinner. It was about 6pm when we arrived only to find that every restaurant in town was closed...every restaurant except for The Swiss Chalet. Apparently, there is a large Swiss population residing in this tiny mountain town, and they are the only ones who like to eat dinner....AT 6PM...ON THURSDAYS!

Since I can't recall a time in my life when I had a hankering for Swiss cuisine, my mom and I chose to go with a usually reliable Subway sandwich. I steered my Toyota into the Subway parking lot and was immediately mesmerized by a picture of the new Chicken Pizzola...chicken breast and pepperoni with cheese, marinara sauce, and all the fixing's. My attention was quickly diverted when I noticed that all of the other restaurant seekers (the non-Swiss) had also made their way to Subway.

Refusing to be defeated, my mom and I took our place in line. There were two women working the counter. If I had to guess, their names were Madge and Celeste...but I really have no idea. Madge was an older woman, and Celeste could have been anywhere between the ages of 18 and 37. It was hard to tell. Neither was in a hurry to complete a sandwich order, but at least they were pleasant.

We eventually made our way to the front of the line, and Madge took my order. After destroying my Italian Herbs and Cheese loaf, she made a feeble attempt to scoop marinara sauce out of the meatball pan. Madge eventually produced enough marinara for a rotini noodle or two, but she seemed satisfied with her efforts and passed my sandwich to Celeste who did a fine job of binding up the wounded display with an assortment of vegetables.

I won't go into all the details of the check-out process, but let's just say that Celeste's brilliance was short-lived.

We then decided to quickly drive through Burger King to pick up chicken nuggets for TJ. I placed my order and drove to the window where I proceeded to pay. Unfortunately, Crazy Cashier Lady wasn't so great on the exchange, and one of my dollar bills flew through the air and landed under my back tire. She immediately began to instruct me as to how I could manipulate my body and squeeze out of my door which was wedged against the building to reach the dollar bill....the dollar that she had dropped. My mom, seeing the confusion and bewilderment on my face, began to laugh hysterically in the passenger seat. This was of no help to me.

To add insult to injury (I'm still sore from the rescue attempt), it took FOREVER to cook the nuggets...the FOUR nuggets. Every once in awhile, an employee would come to the window, look at us as if to wonder whether we recognized them from their profiles on America's Most Wanted, and then apologize for the delay. I assured one young man that he could make up for the wait by providing us with a free chocolate shake. He obliged. Two minutes later, he emerged with a chocolate shake that had the consistency of a glass of water. This wasn't a huge problem. The shake, after all, was free. But, the fact that my "frozen" treat was sloshing over the side didn't seem to be enough to convince Wonder Boy that something was terribly wrong. This sent my mom into the silent laugh.

Nearly an hour after we left the cabin, my mom and I headed back home...armed with two cold subs, four piping hot nuggets, and a large chocolate milk.

The entire evening was a series of bizarre encounters and inexplicable circumstances. But, I FINALLY had a witness....someone to testify to the unsettling nuances that seem to prevail in the state of Colorado...someone to assure me that the oddities I've tried so desperately to communicate really do exist....that the glazed stare of confusion I experience so often is, in fact, justified. I must say, I am quite relieved.