The Chill Line

It seems like you always hear about local diners getting “regulars” who eat at their place every day or so, but fast food gets ‘em too. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.

There was one guy who came in every day and always got a footlong roast chicken sandwich on wheat bread, toasted with no cheese, loaded with sriracha sauce (until we stopped selling it). Sometimes he bought three cookies and gave them all to the people who were working that day, always friendly and always on a first-name basis with my manager Judith. (Stevie called him “Mr. Clean,” since he was bald and wore white t-shirts.)

Another woman came in every few days and ordered either a toasted chicken-bacon-ranch sandwich on wheat bread with provolone cheese. Whenever I asked if she wanted it toasted, she just nodded and gave me a thumbs-up, the crows’ feet around her eyes wrinkling up in warmth. She usually ate in the store, accompanied by a book, and she always got cookies instead of chips with her combo.

Judith always knew what another regular got before he even had to say anything. He would walk in and she’d just ask, “One or two cookies?” since it varied from day to day. His sandwich was always ham and turkey, not toasted, with mayonnaise and mustard, and he always ate within the store. He hardly ever said a word to anybody, but he always smiled, his salt-and-pepper hair showing just a tiny bit of age.

There was also a morning regular. He had white hair and a mustache, a stark contrast to his tan skin – which made me feel a little at-ease, knowing that I wasn’t the only non-white person in the store at those given moments. It was always a breakfast sandwich, usually ham, egg, and cheese on flatbread, always toasted. Sometimes he’d talk for an hour with Judith and give her advice; she was only nearing forty and he was probably a grandpa to somebody.

One lady worked at a hair salon in the same shopping plaza as us, and every time she came in, there was always a rush. She never helped by ordering eight flatbread pizzas at a time, the most tedious things to make out of everything on the menu. The line would be held up and people would end up going around her to get to the cashier, but she was always nice. One time she gave my manager a goodie bag of beauty products as a thank-you for putting up with her outrageous orders.

And there was another sriracha guy, the only other person who ever got sriracha on their sandwich besides Mr. Clean. He always got a footlong buffalo chicken sandwich on flatbread, absolutely smothered with spinach and flooded with sriracha. I remember the look of absolute heartbreak that set in upon his face when our last bottle sputtered in my hands as I tried to get the last of it out. He looked legitimately sad, but it was understandable – food makes people happy, after all. At least he was a good sport and didn’t threaten to bomb our store or something.

Since our Subhero shop was just in the outskirts of Chicago, me and my best friend’s home city, I always kind of expected us to be packed at all hours of the day. Maybe that’s why I always appreciated the regulars and welcomed them when they came in during slow hours.

I saw them almost every day, but I only worked there for a few months before college swept me away and my curiosity about their lives was cut short.