One of the things I like best about taking public transportation to work every day is the lessons I learn about my fellow travelers that I then use to extrapolate on humanity writ large. For example: I had never assumed that there were true Subway aficionados. I’m talking about the fast food sandwich place here, not the style of train. It had long been my supposition that Subway was not the sort of place that anyone ever planned to go. It was just there, because it’s just everywhere and if you want a sandwich and don’t have a lot of cash on you it would be a perfectly acceptable solution. I had assumed that the key to Subway’s success was its ubiquity, as the owners are so keen on having more restaurants than any other fast food place that they will okay any franchise no matter what business it may cannibalize.

These assumptions, I have found, were not entirely accurate.

On the northbound Brown Line I shared a car with two very loud Subway true believers. Sitting across from each other — if you are a heterosexual male traveling in a group you don’t take a neighboring seat but sit across from your companion and yell across the aisle because, apparently, only queers sit beside one another — these two lads loudly and angrily declared their love for Subway while comparing preferences. The conversation went a little like this at one point:

“What kind of bread do you get with a meatball?”

“Fuck you! I’m not going to fucking tell you. You’ll just laugh at me again.”

“You little fucking bitch! What kind of bread?”

“No, fuck you!”

“You fucking little bitch! What kind of bread?”

“Just Italian, all the way.”

“That’s dumb! That’s dumb and childish!”

I’ve actually shortened that considerably. There were quite a few more “bitches” and “fucking” involved in the original version. This kind of conversation continued for cheese selection as well as many of the major condiments.

These fellows knew everything about the chain. They knew the menu, which subs could be had at a discount, which locations at which they could get free drinks, and they wanted the entire car to know about it.

You really can learn a lot on the L.

Over the past few nights — very late — someone for whom English is obviously not a primary language has been leaving nearly incomprehensible messages on our answering machine. Being the light sleeper that she is the wife has been the one to suffer from these repeated calls — he will call several times before finally leaving his message. I, a very sound sleeper, continue to snore straight through these intrusions.

I don’t have any idea from whereabouts he is placing these calls as the number is listed as private on the caller ID. All I know is that he would like to kiss someone or something and he “like you sex.” Want to listen? I’ve embedded the first, and funniest, of the messages below.

A coworker told me this story about his mother. She was planning a visit and was concerned about being able to work on something or other. To the best of my recollection it went as follows:

Mom: Do you have a wireless modem at your house?

Son: No, mom, I don’t.

Mom: Well, how am I going to use the Internet?

Son: You can use my computer.

Mom: You don’t have a computer, you have a Mac.

Son: That is a computer!

Mom: Oh, I thought it was just a word processor.

I work in the laboratory of a hospital. You know when you get some blood drawn or have to pee into a cup? Yeah, we get those fluids (among other things that can come out of a human being). Certain values are considered “critical” because left untreated they can cause any number of undesirable outcomes. In my particular section of microbiology those values are typically positive blood cultures and the occasional positive gram stain on sterile body fluids and tissues. These results, being critical, must be given to a caregiver, i.e. nurse, as soon as they are detected.

This past Thursday I had such a result. A blood culture had been flagged as positive by our instrument. When checking for bactermia a set amount of blood is withdrawn and placed in a bottle, which is then loaded into an instrument that maintains a constant temperature and agitation. As bacteria grow they produce CO₂ producing a color change in a disc at the bottom of the bottle which is read by our machine. So, depending on the organism and its rate of growth this can happen at nearly any time, but averages out to be 18-24 hours after loading most often.

I, having removed the offending bottle from the machine and done the necessary work up, check the computer to see the patient’s current location so I might call and deliver the results of my gram stain. I see that this particular culture was collected at an affiliated hospital’s ER and said patient has since been discharged. More hospital computer system jiggery-pokery is ordered, and I find that he has apparently been admitted to one of our floors. I locate the phone number and call that nursing station.

Note, I know the score. In accordance with HIPAA I’ve altered this patient’s name sufficiently to protect his privacy without significantly affecting my story. While I was at it, I also made up fake names for the nurses I spoke to as well.

Floor: 10 West, this is Williams.

Your’s Truly: Hello, this is Benjamin from the microbiology lab. I’ve a positive blood culture report on a patient I have reason to believe was transferred from the ER. I’m not sure if I’m pronouncing this correctly, but do you have a Mister “CHAY-bon” there?

Floor: No, we don’t have anyone by that name.

YT: Are you certain? Because the computer seems to indicate that. . .

Floor: Nope, no one by that name here.

YT: Okay, thanks.

Certain that I had the correct floor, I call the department that manages the patient’s in house and discharged. They know if a patient has been transferred, discharged, or admitted. I give the lady working there some information and she tells me that this patient is, in fact, on 10 West. She even gives me a room number. Armed with this information I call the floor back.

Floor: 10 West, this is Williams.

Your’s Truly: Hello, this is Benjamin from microbiology again. I just spoke with bed management and they seem to think that the patient I just called about is on that floor. I’ve been told he’s in room 21.

Floor: Oh, you mean “SHAH-bon.” I’ll transfer you to his nurse.

YT: . . .

Nurse: Yeah?

YT: Hello, this is Benjamin from microbiology. Are you taking care of Mr. “SHAH-bon?”

Nurse: You mean “CHAY-bon.”

YT: . . .