TAKING THE SUBWAY HOME
BY RICKY FAY
Dinner at the Fay house was generally an all-together affair. Whether we gathered for casseroles, takeout, or holiday feasts, whether we were fighting, celebrating, or giving someone across the table the silent treatment, for twenty minutes a day we broke bread and enjoyed or endured each other's company. From time-to-time neighbors or friends dropped by, contributing their own unique flavor. There were thousands of meals shared over the decades, but some traditions stood out ...
On the infrequent occasions when Dad would cook, the fare was always simple, memorable, and delicious. Barbecued burgers and hot dogs atop pillowy toasted buns. Cheddar, Swiss, and Velveeta cheeses draped across baked Saltines, accompanied by tomato soup from a can that warmed us like a hug. Sunny-side-up eggs and SPAM with diced potatoes, grilled beneath a blanket of cracked black pepper after mass on Sunday mornings.
With rare exception, Mom slaved away over a hot stove nightly, trying to ensure her family had something nutritious and filling in our bellies, but strangely it was Leftover Night we kids looked forward to the most, probably because of the theatricality and gamesmanship involved. Over the course of a month or more our freezer would fill with odd-shaped, tinfoil-covered meal remnants until our mother declared it was time for a purge. We'd gather with anticipation around the table as frozen moon rocks were placed in the center. We rolled dice or drew cards to determine the draft order,* trying to activate our x-ray vision and penetrate the tinfoil wrappers. Items shaped like pizza slices were selected in the first round, although we never forgot the time Mom demonstrated her capacity for evil genius, folding old brussels sprouts, asparagus stalks, and broccoli into shiny triangular origami. Those of us she'd tricked groaned with disappointment and grudging respect as she cackled wickedly. Lasagna, giant baked potatoes, tuna surprise, apple pie, Mom's legendary (or infamous) Magic Meatballs ... somehow the mystical ambiance of Leftover Night helped the most mismatched a la carte entrees complement one another like a tasting menu devised and prepared at a five-star restaurant.
But even stranger to the uninitiated than Leftover Night was our annual family meal on Christmas Eve. It began one year when we kids were relatively young and all had roles to play in the grand Midnight Mass pageant (which inexplicably began at 9:30 pm), so we needed something quick and easy. Someone jokingly suggested Subway sandwiches. The room reacted with laughter, but no one had a better idea, so Subway it was. And once we'd had fun doing something on a specific date in the Fay household, it became capital-T Tradition: unquestioned, unassailable, carved in stone. Every Christmas Eve became Subway night, with the honor of taking orders and fetching the subs sometime before dinner usually falling to me. The task was one I was happy to perform, painless and typically uneventful. But then came the year we awoke on December 24th to find the neighborhood under an unexpected, pristine, festive dusting of white.
People who didn't grow up in Portland during the 1980s and '90s might find this hard to believe, but for an urban area that forecast and received as much rain as we got each year, the Rose City was utterly unprepared for winter weather. Half an inch of snow was enough to immediately trigger school closures, divert city buses onto emergency routes, send local TV meteorologists scrambling to stake out prime broadcasting locations along Portland's Skyline Boulevard, and generally spark a shivering fear of a possible snowmageddon spiraling across the entire populace. We'd learn a decade later that the entire fleet of publicly owned snowplows available to city workers for the whole metropolitan area numbered precisely four.** Okay, enough background. On with the story ...
A new Subway location had opened only half a mile away, so I collected sandwich orders from family members, laced up snow boots, grabbed my backpack, and headed out into the winter wonderland. It was barely after noon. Snow was still falling gently, but not really accumulating. However, it wasn't melting either. I was surprised to find a postersized message scrawled in Sharpie on cardboard, taped to the store's locked glass door:
Dear Customers—
We’re closed because of the blizzard.
Please come again soon.
Merry Christmas!
As I jogged back home, I surveyed the traffic patterns. Flurries swirled harmlessly across the still-visible asphalt. Drivers gripped their steering wheels with white-knuckled anxiety, clicking on their high beams with the sun still hovering near its zenith and slowing travel to an unnecessary crawl. Parking lots of local businesses were jammed with idling vehicles, their operators frantically fumbling to strap on chains.
This was the late 1990s, when few college students owned cell phones and I landed squarely in that majority. I notified my folks of the local Subway closure when I arrived home, before grabbing my car keys and heading out again. There was another Subway two miles in the opposite direction down a main arterial thoroughfare but, after braving tail and brake lights amidst the falling flakes for twenty minutes, I was dismayed to learn that this branch too had sent its employees home early. Undaunted, I continued my quest, eventually discovering that the next half-dozen franchise locations I came across had likewise closed their doors in the face of a potential Christmas whiteout. By now I was far from home, but I refused to give up, refused to allow our Tradition to die on my watch.
Then, an epiphany! I recalled that a fraternity brother had worked at a Subway branch near his home during summer vacations and planned to pick up a few shifts over winter break. Maybe he could let me in and throw together a few sandwiches? He didn't live in Portland proper but in one of the countless outlying suburbs, I flipped on my blinker and made a course correction.
By now it was late afternoon, and the sunlight was beginning to wane. Over the river and through the woods, to Eddie's parents' house I crept. After posing as a lost (and terrible) Christmas caroler on their porch, I was welcomed inside. Eddie was thrilled to see me, but had devastating news to impart — today had been his last shift of break. He'd turned in his keys only a few hours earlier. He called his boss to inquire if the branch was still open. More crushing news: it was not.
Hugs were dispensed. Best wishes for sandwich success and a Merry Christmas. Then, back on the road again.
The snow was falling harder. Cars were beginning to slide on rapidly forming ice. Continuing down the highway, I realized that the sun (behind its cloud cover) was threatening to set, but I was determined not to return empty-handed. Finally, I found myself in Newberg...
... which quickly became my favorite city in Oregon ...
Because their Subway station was still open.
The local sandwich artists appeared understandably perplexed when their first customer in hours, tears in his eyes, fell to his knees on the carpet and actually kissed the ground. I felt like Charlie Brown, George Bailey, and Clark Griswold all rolled together as their momentous Christmastime trials resolved. I was Meriwether Lewis first glimpsing the Pacific, except he didn't encounter anyone offering to make him footlong sandwiches. So overcome with relief and gratitude was I that words failed me. It was all I could do to pass one employee my handwritten order and nod mutely as they walked me through the construction of our family feast. I left a big, emotional tip.
By now, the sun had disappeared completely but, as I had no cell phone, calling home to report the happy outcome wasn't remotely an option that occurred to me. I navigated the roads cautiously, bursting with accomplishment and holiday cheer, singing along joyfully to whatever carol came across the radio waves. It took ninety minutes to complete the return voyage.
As I bounded up the outside steps of my childhood home, I couldn't contain my robust exuberance. Flinging the door open wide, I stepped across the threshold, inhaling the welcoming fragrance of the illuminated, decorated Douglas Fir in our living room. The conquering hero, snow falling from his shoulders, thrust two fists full of sandwiches high in the air and bellowed: "The night Ricky saved Christmas!" For lo, this I had done.
Mom dropped the phone and rushed toward me, tears streaming down her face. She'd been calling emergency rooms. I'd been gone and out of contact for more than six hours. Stifling a sob, she informed me she'd long ago arrived at the inescapable certainty I was in a ditch somewhere.*** She hugged me, slapped me fiercely while invoking a profane epithet which called into question my paternal lineage, then embraced me a second time, excoriating me to never scare her thusly again.
Once more, we gathered around the table. Hot and sour soup had been procured from a nearby Chinese place by Dad: a worthy Plan B if l'd failed in my mission, and a new sacrosanct Christmas Eve Tradition going forward.
We held hands, bowed our heads, and said grace, recognizing we had much to celebrate. Then we dug in, joking and laughing and reminiscing as snow continued to drift down outside. Christmas — in the form of sub sandwiches and piping, savory soup – had never tasted so good. | RF
* Historian's note: this controversial detail remains in dispute to this day. Our father maintains that we paid him homage due the local patriarch every Leftover Night by ceding first overall pick to him. No one else involved recalls having ever agreed to this particular form of tribute, but it sounds nice in retrospect.
** This information came to light during the storm of 2008, when three feet of unprecedented, unpredicted snow appeared overnight a few days before Christmas and promptly froze, locking down roadways and shuttering Portland International Airport for a week.
*** Why do mothers always think their grown children are in ditches? Just for my own edification, I’ve explored a few. Never understood the appeal.
A LIFE-LONG OREGONIAN OF IRISH-AMERICAN STOCK, RICKY FAY HAS HEARD AND SEEN OTHERS CLAIM TO WEAR THEIR HEARTS ON THEIR SLEEVES. THE ONLY PLACE HE HAS EVER TRULY FELT UNDERSTOOD IS ON THE PAGE OR SCREEN.
