NEW YORK—After you realized that he was speaking with the deli counter attendant longer than is customary, it became apparent this afternoon that, goddammit, the guy in the reflective vest ahead of you in line is placing an order for all of his fellow construction workers. “Shit,” you reportedly lamented silently upon noticing the small piece of paper in the man’s hand, which, according to a cursory glance, appears to contain at least 10 different sandwich orders, most with their own specified beverages and sides. “Oh, come on, not the cell phone. Jesus, is he double-checking an order with someone? No fucking way.” At press time, well shit, there goes the last chicken parm sub, for fuck’s sake.