The Subway sandwich shop near my childhood house closed its doors four years ago, at the height of the pandemic. The plain, square, beige building stood lonely on top of the parking lot it resided in. The cracked pavement seemed to reflect the building's age, and the withered paint scarcely stained the parking lot's many available parking spaces. It didn't look like it belonged within my neighborhood, as the many inhabited family homes created a bright atmosphere. The small sandwich deli failed to uphold this energy, its only color being the mute white and yellow corporate logo plastered on the front of the building. Wide windows along the dining room provided a glimpse into the much livelier interior of the building.
The warm scent of freedom and the summer air flavored each breath we took. A feeling unable to be replicated was felt by every kid on the same day. Summer vacation. The lack of responsibilities meant the possibilities were endless. To us, summer vacation meant late-night bonfires, staying up to five in the morning playing games, sleeping in till whenever, trips to the ice cream parlor, and swimming in our favorite lake. Our only commitments were to stay safe and read four books by the end of the summer. It was paradise.
To celebrate our newfound freedom, we decided to demonstrate to our parents our independence and bike by ourselves to get lunch.
“Get some money," my best friend told me as we departed from school on the last afternoon of school. “Let's get sandwiches.”.
With our helmets snug against our heads and our money protected in our zipped-up pockets, we left. We raced quickly through our small neighborhood, navigating the many twists and turns that lead to the main roads connecting us to the city. We frequently merged between the soft, gray, inconsistent concrete of the street and the dark, black concrete of the sidewalk. The tall trees alongside the road cast cool shadows along our route and provided protection from the sun. Summer will last forever for a kid.
After crossing the main road to get into the parking lot, we parked our bikes along the backside of the restaurant, hidden from the view of the main road. As we entered the building, the contrast between the inside and outside became apparent. The smell of gas-guzzling automobiles was replaced by the smell of fresh bread. The dark gray and mute yellow atmosphere of the exterior of the building was displaced by the bright greens, yellows, and reds of photos of fresh vegetables that lined the wall. I noticed the display of meats, cheeses, vegetables, and bread behind the counter, waiting for me to pick them up.
Walking up to the counter, I began brainstorming all the possible combinations I could make to have an optimized dining experience. All the liberty of picking exactly what I want with none of the hassle of cleaning it up or cooking it? I was hooked instantly.
The summer went by, and over the course of it, my friend and I made repeated trips to buy our favorite sandwiches. Along with many expeditions, the simple sandwich shop became embedded in my memory of this summer. A confluence of experiences became my perception of the Subway franchise, and I became a loyal customer throughout my childhood.
When the store closed its doors at the start of the pandemic, I felt a sense of loss. The summer I had, which was once remembered as total freedom and fun, now lives only in my head. The tangible building within which I was able to see my younger self thrive now stands abandoned and decrepit. Seeing the place as I drove by left me feeling as empty as the building stood. The mute green and yellow sign was removed from the top of the door, and the windows no longer showed a bright, lively interior but a dark and hollow one. The paint only decayed off of the building as the months went by, with no sign of repairs being made.
A new restaurant moved into the abandoned building last year. A local breakfast diner named The Sinful Kitchen. Before their move, they operated out of the first floor of a small apartment building just up the street from the old subway. They were an established name within our local neighborhood, having been working out of that building for over 5 years. They were always there when I passed by on my way into the subway. Their sign hung in front of the building just before the cracked asphalt sidewalk and had the restaurant's name printed in big red letters on a plain white background with a pitchfork replacing the ‘I’ in ‘Sinful’. Throughout my childhood, I had never eaten there with my family nor ordered takeout, despite their close location and positive reputation. Yet I always noticed their distinct red pitchfork calling out to me.
The new owners of the building completely renovated both the interior and exterior of my beloved sandwich shop. The plain beige exterior became a bright multicolored mural with a symphony of breakfast foods atop a blue and green map of the neighborhood. The stale green and white 'Subway' sign was replaced with the sinister red-colored letters of the building's new identity. The inside had been changed from photos of fresh vegetables to paintings from local artists and drawings made out of crayon by the restaurant patrons. The parking lot was repainted with new, fresh white lines to exaggerate the new parking spaces offered.
The Sinful Kitchen brought a new life into the building I once thought was forever dead. Passing by, I see more cars than I would have seen parked out in the parking lot and spilling over into the residential streets nearby. The windows no longer show empty booths waiting to be filled, but tables of people chatting, laughing, and eating together.
Since the building has been redone, I've noticed that I think about that summer less and less. The ephemeral memories I made with my friend have since faded into the past. No longer could summer vacation be as freeing as when I was a kid. Now I have a job, SAT and summer courses, and familial commitments, among other responsibilities, to take care of. The feeling of summer is not gone but has since matured beyond what it used to mean. The overwhelming feeling of complete freedom and lack of problems in my life has shifted over the years to independence and opportunity for growth. As I've watched my beloved, imperfect, cheap sandwich shop transform over the years, I've matured along with it. Now is the time for me to prepare myself to leave home next year.