Another Satisfied Customer

Reginald Atwater wasted the best years of his life as a sandwich artist at a Subway restaurant in a suburban strip mall on the outskirts of Omaha. If he would’ve known this at the time he would’ve quit making sandwiches and become a surf instructor in Costa Rica. Instead he kept his nose to the grindstone, confident that his work ethic would be noticed and rewarded with a promotion to management.

The strip mall included a day-old bakery outlet, a gas station that housed an impressive display of pornographic magazines and sold over-the-counter speed, an insurance office that was probably a nefarious money-laundering front, and a sports bar inexplicably frequented by Cleveland Browns fans. Each of these businesses had their own dedicated parking spaces, which were clearly delineated with bright yellow paint.

On this particular Sunday, hordes of Cleveland Browns supporters congregated at the sports bar to cheer on their beloved gridiron underdogs. As Subway’s de facto weekend manager, Reginald was dismayed to see that many sports bar patrons parked with no regard for the other businesses in the shopping centre.

Rather than let this churlish behaviour go unchecked and jeopardize his employer’s bottom line, he decided to take decisive action. He hoped this move would earn him recognition as the official weekend manager.

Reginald opened the phone book and called the A-1 tow truck company.

 “I have ten vehicles illegally parked in front of the Subway restaurant in Cornhusker Plaza.

 Can you send somebody to tow these cars at owner expense?” “Ten?”

“That’s right. The spaces are clearly marked.”

 “Give me about an hour and I’ll have my guys out there.”

Reginald hung up the phone and smiled. He was sure his proactive decision-making would catch the attention of his boss, clearly marking him as management material. He put his feet up on the manager’s desk, monitoring the closed circuit camera system for the arrival of the first wave of tow trucks and wondering what kind of pay rise he could expect as a full-fledged manager. The thought of an extra 50¢ per hour made him giddy.

The doorbell rang, signaling that a customer had just entered the restaurant. The sharp tone triggered a Pavlov’s Dog-type response. Reginald jumped to his feet, straightened out his company- issued apron and visor, and headed out to greet the customer.

“How can I help you?” he asked as he scrubbed his hands in the tiny sink behind the sandwich counter. He washed his hands 500 times in an average day but no amount of soap could overpower the smell of onion on his fingertips.

“Let’s see,” said a woman in her late thirties, unfolding a small piece of paper. “I need two footlong meatballs on white, a footlong cold cut combo on white, and a footlong BMT on wheat bread.”

Reginald cut troughs into the bread, lined the troughs with four triangles of cheese, and gently but efficiently filled each sandwich with the appropriate proteins. Like a true artist, his touch elevated the simple act of sandwich-making into culinary ballet.

“What toppings would you like on these?”

 “Let’s see,” the woman fumbled with her list. “Black olives, pickles, and a squiggly line of mayonnaise on the meatball sub, everything except jalapeño peppers and onions on the cold cut combo, and just mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato, oil, and vinegar on the BMT.”

Reginald dressed the sandwiches as if they were his own, rolled them in wax paper, and slid them into a bag with an appropriate amount of napkins. The official employee handbook recommended two per sandwich, but he knew from experience that whoever was eating that meatball sub would appreciate a few more napkins to handle the marinara overflow. He scrubbed his hands once more before keying the woman’s order into the cash register.

“That comes to $11.96,” he said. “Can I interest you in any freshly-baked cookies?”

The woman declined the up-sell and paid with a twenty. Reginald counted back her change and threw in twelve stamps for her Subway loyalty card.

“We do double stamps on Sundays,” he explained. “You already have enough for a free six-inch on your next visit. Have a great rest of the day!”

 Reginald retreated to the back room, where his co-worker Jeffrey was reading a comic book. “You get the next one,” he said.

Jeffrey was widely regarded as Subway’s laziest employee. He had a bad habit of disappearing to the walk-in cooler to smoke weed during the dinner rush, leaving the rest of the team short a pair of hands at the sandwich counter. The secret of his longevity, in a word, was nepotism. Jeffrey was the owner’s nephew and therefore immune from discipline.

“If you say so,” said Jeffrey.

 Reginald took his seat at the manager’s desk and sipped from his Dr. Pepper. Free unlimited fountain sodas were among the perks of working at Subway. One of his friends from school worked as a fry cook at Long John Silver’s and often complained that employees were charged for anything besides ice water.

The doorbell rang and Jeffrey reluctantly sauntered to the sandwich counter to assist the incoming customer. Reginald watched his movements on the closed-circuit system. He had the body language of someone who’d rather be anywhere else in the world but making sandwiches on a Sunday afternoon, shameful behaviour for a sandwich artist.

Reginald looked at his watch. The tow-trucks were due any minute now. He eased into the plush leather manager’s chair, imagining his future self as the manager, making the schedules and ordering the weekly produce from wholesale companies. He was determined to learn all aspects of the business and maybe, with a little luck, become a franchisee himself.

The bell rang again. Jeffrey’s glacial pace of service was causing a queue. It was up to Reginald to ensure that customers were being served promptly and effectively. He straightened out his visor and apron and joined Jeffrey at the sandwich counter.

“What can I get for you?” he asked as he washed his hands yet again.

“Footlong steak and cheese, double the meat and add bacon,” said an extremely tall skinny man with round framed glasses and a salt and pepper goatee. He looked like John Lennon reimagined as a shooting guard for the Washington Wizards.

“White or wheat bread?”

“White.”

Reginald carved a trough into a fresh loaf of bread, dipped the slotted spoon into the steak mixture, and waited as the steak brine drained off. Without that crucial step, the sandwich would become soggy, creating a dissatisfied customer. He packed the meat into the bread, topped it with four slices of pre-cooked bacon and eight triangles of cheese.

“Any toppings?”

 “Put some mayonnaise on there, a big handful of jalapeño peppers, and then drench the meat with red wine vinegar. You’ll know you got it right when the bread turns pink.”

As a sandwich artist, Reginald never judged his customers, even when they presented him with bizarre topping requests. He just smiled like a happy lunatic and did exactly what he was told, no matter how viscerally repulsive their requests struck him personally.

When the bread blushed pink Reginald cut the sandwich in half. He hoisted it onto a stack of wax paper and wrapped it tightly. Through the lobby windows he watched as an armada of tow trucks descended on the Cornhusker Plaza parking lot. He quickly washed his hands, punched Wizard John Lennon’s order into the cash register, counted out the change and loyalty stamps, and sent another satisfied customer on his way.

“Jeffrey,” he barked towards the back room. “Next one’s yours.”

 Reginald watched from the Subway lobby with awe at the spectacle he had set into motion. The tow truck drivers worked quickly and methodically, securing illegally parked vehicles to their equipment with heavy chains and hoisting them onto two wheels with a big hydraulic arm. A baby blue Chrysler LeBaron was the first to go, followed by a forest green Pontiac Sunfire and a rusty orange Ford Bronco II.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. The game had reached halftime. A restless Cleveland Browns fan stepped into the parking lot to stretch his legs and was confronted with the sight of several cars being towed. The man ducked back into the sports bar and emerged moments later with an army of furious half-drunk Cleveland Browns supporters. They poured into the parking lot, shouting and wildly gesticulating at the tow truck drivers.

Reginald watched nervously as the chaos unfolded. A man in a number nineteen Bernie Kosar jersey grabbed one of the tow truck drivers by his shirt and slammed him against a minivan. He stepped out onto the sidewalk to hear what they were saying.

“What’s your problem, jerk?”

“I’m just doing my job, man,” said the tow truck driver. “We got a call about some illegally parked vehicles here at the plaza and my boss sent us here to get them out of here.”

A circle of Cleveland Browns fans surrounded the two men.

“I’ve got no beef with you, seeing as you’re just doing your job,” said the guy in the Bernie Kosar jersey, loosening his grip on the tow truck driver. “I can assure you these cars are parked in accordance with the rules of the plaza.”

“We’re just following orders,” said the tow truck driver. “There’s obviously been some sort of misunderstanding.”

“You seem like a reasonable man,” said the guy in the Bernie Kosar jersey. “I propose we find a mutually agreeable solution to this little misunderstanding. How about you and your colleagues unhitch these vehicles, and point us to whoever it was that called your company.”

“Under normal circumstances we’re not allowed to share that information, but since we’re all reasonable people here I guess I can make an exception.”

The Cleveland Browns fans leaned in, sensing blood in the water. A moment of silence elapsed and the guy in the Bernie Kosar jersey tightened his grip. “Tell us who called you before I get angry.” The tow truck closed his eyes and pointed across the parking lot at Reginald.

Instantly, the collective rage of the Cleveland Browns supporters was redirected from the fleet of tow truck drivers to the gangly teenager gawking at them from underneath the Subway awning.

“GET HIS ASS!”

 The angry mob lurched into motion, triggering Reginald’s fight or flight response. He wisely chose flight and dashed back into the restaurant. He pulled a chain and turned off the neon ‘open’ sign in the doorway and sprinted into the backroom to grab the door keys.

Jeffrey looked up from his comic book. “What’s wrong, dude?”

“We’re about to get a beatdown from some pissed-off Cleveland Browns fans. Get on the phone and call the cops or our asses are gonna be skin.”

Reginald grabbed the keys from the manager’s desk and sprinted back to the lobby.

 Adrenaline flowing, he somersaulted over the sandwich counter and somehow turned the key in the lock as the mob reached the front door. Cleveland Browns fans foamed at the mouth as they pounded on the windows and tugged at the door, showering Reginald with vile epithets.

“Open up, you little cocksucker,” shouted a short balding man with a mustache. “We’re about to park a goddamn tow truck up your fucking ass when we get hold of you!”

“I’ll tear you apart myself, you miserable little shit!”

Reginald shrugged at the half-drunk mob, smugly mouthing the words “sorry, we’re closed,” when his peripheral vision picked up a small object hurtling at the storefront. A split-second later, there was a giant crash and the plate glass window was left completely spiderwebbed, hit by a brick. Reginald turned and ran to the back room, hoping Jeffrey had the police on the line, but he was nowhere to be found.

“This is all my fault,” he said to himself. “There’s nothing I can do besides walk out there and take my beating like a man.”

Ready to surrender himself to the churning throng, Reginald walked slowly and calmly back into the lobby, hands held high over his head in a posture of surrender. Just as he reached to unlock the door he heard the wailing sirens of police cruisers growing closer. Not wanting to take their chances with Omaha’s finest, and their finely-calibrated breathalyzer machines, the angry drunken mob scattered to the winds.

Reginald surveyed the scene. Aside from the broken window, there was no significant damage to the restaurant. The police arrived and offered their assistance, but Reginald declined to file an official report. It was all a misunderstanding he said, and since the dust had settled and nobody was hurt there was no need to get the law involved. The police handed him a business card and left, happy to be spared the paperwork.

Reginald sat down at the manager’s desk, resting his face in his hands. Just an hour ago, he envisioned himself on the fast track to management, but his attempt at proactive decision making almost got himself killed. What would he tell his boss?

The walk-in cooler door popped open, jolting Reginald out of his thoughts. Jeffrey emerged, red-eyed and shivering from the cold.

“Is everything okay? I called the cops just like you said.” “They showed up just in time.”

“I also called my uncle,” said Jeffrey. “He said he’s gonna send someone down here to board up the window and they’ll replace the glass Monday morning.”

“Was he pissed?”

“Let’s just say he wasn’t thrilled to be interrupted on the golf course. He wanted me to tell you he’s not gonna fire you, but you need to stop doing stupid shit like calling in tow trucks. Those guys at the sports bar are our customers too, and it’s gonna take a lot of effort to win them back after that silly shit you pulled today.”

Reginald hadn’t thought of it like that. He hung his head.

“Keep your chin up, Reggie,” said Jeffrey. “Come smoke a joint with me in the walk-in cooler and I promise you, by the end of the day you’ll realize there’s more to life than making stupid sandwiches for even stupider people.”

Twenty years later, as he watched the fat orange sun plunge into the Pacific from the soft warm sand of a Costa Rican surf resort, smoking a spliff the size of a cigar, Reginald - bronzed from decades of endless summer - reflected on that fateful Sunday afternoon at Subway and Jeffrey’s sage wisdom. Where on earth would he be without it?

J. Archer Avary (he/him) is a former TV journalist. His writing has appeared in What Are Birds?, Horse Egg Literary, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, The Remnant Archive, The Beatnik Cowboy, Green Ink Poetry, and Potato Soup Journal. He lives on a tiny island in the English Channel. @j_archer_avary