Night at a Subway
Originally published in ink Volume V (2022), Vancouver Public Library
As a high school
student living with parents in an old suburb of Vancouver, there aren’t many
options for having fun at night, except convincing myself to either get enough
sleep or finishing my homework. At 9:30
pm, I should either be preparing for tomorrow’s notes or bundled up in a warm
blanket with a TV show on hand.
But one Friday night,
I didn’t do either of those things. I had already finished my History
assignment at school, and there was really nothing else to do. A thought popped
into my head: “Oh dear, I would die for some bánh mì loaded with ham and
topped with chock-full of veggies and pickles.” My pocket money didn’t allow
for an extravaganza meal at a dimly lit Vietnamese restaurant on the east side
of the city, so I begged my dad to drive me to the nearest… Subway. After some mouth-drying
persuasions, here I was, buckled at the front seat and shivering from the
chilly night air. Come on, I thought, spring is just in a few weeks.
Fingers still
frozen from the frigid seaside breezes, I swiped the screen on the front seat at
the radio to break the awkward nocturnal silence. Normally, I would love to
tune on to one of the pop music radio stations with singers concocting straight
words on top of their lungs. But tonight, I was very much obliged to choose
something relaxing, so I turned on Troye Sivan’s Suburbia. And suburbia
every inch it was outside. We drove past the sleepy residential townhouses,
where the yellow light haze evokes some past sense of the 1950s when the people
who bathed in the warm light lamp should have settled down for some greasy TV
dinner trays instead of venturing out in a foggy night as I did. The only signs
of life of the neighborhood, besides the perfectly manicured lawns, were the
flickers of the TV showing SuperBowl matches. Aside from that, the whole town
looked every inch the same as my father’s village in Central Vietnam, with
doors tightly shut, murky streetlamps flickering, and the occasional bar of a
dog from afar.
Fifteen minutes
later, we arrived at a small strip mall tucked around the corner of a busy
intersection. As virtually no one would venture out on this hour on a weekday,
we encountered a stroke of once-of-a-lifetime luck (in one of the most densely
populated cities in North America): a spacious parking lot. My father did a superb
maneuver to park the car straightly into our allotted space, which was in front
of a fried chicken shop. The comforting aroma of fried batter filled my
nostrils during my walk to the Subway rest, feeling like Marty embarking on his
pivotal mission at Twin Pines Mall in Back to the Future. The night was
silent, except for the chatters of a few coat-clad shoppers hustling to reach
home. Looking a little further, beyond the glittering skyscrapers, I could see
the snow-capped mountains lit up with a thousand lights, which I could figure
out to be cable cars from ski resorts. While the suburbs were in a haze of
slumber, the more vibrant downtown districts up north were dancing the night
away with the lights.
But the wind was
starting to pick up, so I began to stride faster to the Subway. I slid the door
and walked in after the high-pitched ring-a-ding of the entrance bell. The
restaurant was bare at late night, except for a Sandwich Artist and two
teenagers munching cookies from a bucket. But what caught my eye was a dazzling
array of fillings and toppings lined almost one-third of the width of the restaurant.
Freshly cut tomato slices, wrinkly jalapeno pickles, and succulent leaves of
lettuce lay adjacent to thick slabs of mozzarella, cheddar, and myriad other
cheeses that I couldn’t even name. At the other end, a bread warmer was
inviting me with its fluffy sub sandwiches neatly arranged in racks: flaky
9-grain wheat with their rich chocolate hues, jalapeno cheese dotted with
golden flecks of cheese, and the simple yet embracing flatbread. Despite the vast
options lying ahead, I opted for my favorite classic: a 12-inch (ahem, I’m also
sharing it with others) Hearty Italian Bread filled with tuna and roasted ham,
topped with almost every available green, from spinach to all shades of onions.
The sub wouldn’t be completed without spicy mayo and hot sauce drizzled on the
top. The sublime feeling of holding a sub with all the flavors packed into a
thin wrapper radiating warmness was worth every second of my nighttime venture.
I paid and left the Subway with a big grin on my face, all “nods, and becks,
and wreathed smiles” under a mask.
On the ride back
home, I let the rich aroma of roasted meat and pungent jalapeno fill my lungs. The
streets were now embedded in a dark velvet veil as the porch lights had just
started to go out. I couldn’t wait to slouch on the couch with a cut of the sub
on hand and The Crown’s suspenseful intro music starting. I bet even the
royals don’t enjoy a night better than this.
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