Trips through Fort Wayne demand that I slow down. Between the city’s magnificent courthouse, towering steeples, and century-old high schools, I can hardly pass any of its landmarks without craning my neck for a better look! My last trip found me drawn to something much less impressive, though: the old Subway I worked at in college. To my surprise, the sign was gone, the windows were dark, and the place was empty.
Subway was my first job. I started working there because I wanted to buy stuff for my new girlfriend. Topping off the old full-size Chevy my stepdad let me drive wasn’t cheap, either! Once I became truly desperate, the sub shop in Yorktown was the closest place to home that might hire me. I filled out an application and became an official sandwich artist.
It didn’t take long to master the art of the hinge cut, slicing cucumbers, and firing up the TurboChef toaster. Soon, though, I had to move on to college. Test scores got me into Hillsdale and Hanover, but I ended up moving to Fort Wayne to study political science. The city was halfway between my parents, I had family in town, and some friends were heading there, too. A scholarship covered half my tuition. Mom and Dad chipped in for the rest of it. Everything else was up to me.
I was pretty sure I’d find another Subway to work at when I set out on my own. Three stood within a couple of miles of my new apartment, and each was owned by a different franchisee. My heart was set on the North Anthony store, and I was thrilled when they offered me a position as assistant manager! Unfortunately, it turned out that the role was at another Subway across town in a part of Fort Wayne I’d never been to before.
First, my new employer shipped me off to a Subway inside a Walmart to learn the ropes. College classes were two weeks away, but the “University of Subway” came first. Despite my experience running the night shift back home, I had to conquer a clunky computer course before I was qualified to slap a single slice of ham onto a loaf of Honey Wheat in Allen County. Over and over, I dragged and dropped toppings over countless digital footings until I was finally trusted behind the counter.
The experience was stupid. How hard could it be to make a sandwich? As it turned out, very. If I hadn’t picked it up from the hours behind a computer screen, the higher standard of my new employer rapidly became apparent. Every quarter, we had to build a fully-loaded Italian BMT -salami, pepperoni, and ham, all run through the garden- as the general manager timed us with a stopwatch…