The Best Subway Sandwich Ever

“Hey sir!” A voice calls to me from the parking lot. “Sir!” I pause on my way toward the Sherwin Williams paint store to pick up a gallon of “Sea Salt.” It’s a blue grey.

A young man is calling to me. He is disheveled and carries a bag chock full of clothes and a blanket. I have a good idea of what is coming.

“Excuse me sir,” he says. “D’you know Porchlight? It’s a homeless shelter.”

“Yeah. I know Porchlight.” I tell him

“Well, you can’t stay there if you don’t have an ID, and ….”

He’s talking with a mouthful of marbles and I don’t catch the next several sentences. Something about some other shelter where you don’t need an ID but they charge $15, and calling someone, his old boss, to see if he could give him some money for the shelter ’cause he doesn’t have enough.

He doesn’t smell like an alcoholic. I can smell an alcoholic. They smell like my stepdad and brother used to smell before they died of the disease. It’s like alcohol comes out through the pores. No, his garbled speech isn’t due to alcohol, it’s because he’s been beat up. His lip is cut, and a purple circle is beginning to fade around his left eye. There are other bruises on his face. He’s a white guy, so they add color to his grey pallor.

“Fifteen dollars.” He says. “I’ve only got five.” And he proffers a wad of single dollar bills. “You don’t need an ID at that place. Fifteen dollars gets you a bed for a week and some food.”

I don’t know the place he’s talking about and I expect Janine is eager for me to get back with the paint and the Spackling. I’ve got to fill the picture holes, let the Spackling dry, and then sand it before she can start painting.

“I don’t have any cash,” I tell him. “Really. I don’t.” I open my empty wallet and show him. His shoulders drop a little and I look at my watch. It’s 11:30am.

“Look, I’ve got to get some paint and some Spackling. We’re painting a room.” He’s haggard, but polite. A moment of silence passes.

“How about when I’m done getting the paint, I get you a sandwich. Then I can take you where you need to go. It’ll be a trade. I give you a sandwich and you tell me your story.”

“Sure,” he says. He’s hard to read. Is he OK with the trade? “Thank you.” He says. “My name is Kyle.”

“I’m Scott.” We shake hands and he follows me into Sherwin Williams.

When we enter, the man behind the counter looks at Kyle and says, “You need to use the phone again?”

“No.” Kyle is sheepish. He takes a seat at the barstool at the counter while I decide whether to get the “Sea Salt” in flat, eggshell or semi-gloss. I call Janine. It’s eggshell. Kyle waits awkwardly while this gets all figured out. Another customer comes in and stands at the counter right next to where Kyle is sitting. He gets up out of the stool, and steps away.

There’s a Subway sandwich shop a few doors down from Sherwin Williams. As we head out the door the guy behind the counter calls to Kyle.

“Hey, come here.”

Kyle turns. He looks confused and starts back toward the counter.

“I’m just getting my friend a sandwich next door,” I say.

“Oh.” The guy says, and he signals for Kyle to go. I’m not sure what he wanted to tell him. Probably to stop panhandling his customers for the fifteen dollars he needs to get into whatever shelter it is that doesn’t require an ID.

Kyle is ahead of me in line at Subway. He seems nervous and asks for a sandwich with his mouthful of marbles.

“Six inch or foot long?” the man asks.

Kyle hesitates and says in a low voice. “Foot long.” Maybe he doesn’t want me to hear that he’s getting such a big sandwich. I decide to get something too, less awkward that way. Kyle and I sashay down the counter like we’re learning a dance – step, together, step, together. The man sets two good-sized chicken breasts side by side on top of Kyle’s footlong sandwich and the construction of Kyles Best Subway Sandwich Ever begins.

“Touch of lettuce,” he says. Kyle is very specific. Not just “lettuce,” but “touch of lettuce.” Then, “Pinch of onion.” He goes on to give adjectives indicating just how the construction should take place – black olives, banana pepper, green pepper. Finally, the most critical part of this masterpiece.

“Line of sweet onion. Line of mayo. Line of honey mustard.”

The guy behind the counter lays down three parallel lines right across the open sandwich, like tracks in a real subway station where you’ve got to be careful of the third rail.

It’s a work of art and takes some effort to shut the thing.

“Do you want a drink?” I ask.

Kyle nods and pulls a cup off the stack, setting it on the counter. When we sit down, he makes good on his part of the trade.

There’s some kind of family tree that I can’t quite follow. It includes a birth mom, then siblings with different dads, foster parents, and finally an adopted family. There’s also a bunch of different towns – Hayward, Rice Lake, others I don’t remember. My God, I think to myself, this kid has lived in a revolving door. No wonder his spirit seems so dizzy. He’s also tired. It’s pretty cold and he spent the night under an embankment. Didn’t really get much sleep. He looks like it.

When we’re done, he wants to go to the Walgreens on East Washington near the McDonalds and the Burger King. He thinks he can get the ten remaining dollars he needs panhandling there.

“Man, I smell terrible,” he tells me in the car. It’s true, but I don’t say anything. “I hate that.” He says. “I hate how I smell.”

“Looks like you’ve been in a scuffle.” I say. I don’t know why I use the word “scuffle.” Sounds like a junior high playground fight.

Turns out some guy gave him a $100 bill and three of his “friends” beat him up for it.

As I drop him off, he tells me, “You know, that sandwich? That’s the best Subway sandwich ever. Friends have told me so. I’ve worked for years on that combination. It’d be even better if you put three different kinds of cheeses, but most Subway people won’t do that for you. You should try it.”

This was a bonus to our trade – one sandwich for one story. But now I have the recipe for constructing the best Subway sandwich ever.