The TV people are gone. They disappeared three days after they arrived; three weeks after we first learned they were coming. We knew better than to beg them to stay. It was magical, but now the TV people have packed up their gear and they've hired cars and they've sped off to the airport, to another city, in search of another sandwich.
They're gone. Rick Holland, host of Sandwich Wars, with his smile for the girls and his plaid flannel shirt and his rugged, I'll-eat-anything good looks — he's gone. Gone, too, are the audio techs with their big headphones and equipment strapped to their sides; the cute make-up girl whose hair was a mess; the P.A. who brought in chain-store donuts (even though we'd have been happy to feed the crew); the hyper, clipboard-wielding redhead with her walkie-talkie and flailing, frantic hands; and the trio of silent camera guys. They are all gone. But I'm still here: aging bus boy, aching back.
They are gone, and now all we have here at Sammy's Diner is the fallout of our brief fame. We look at each other and say, well, that was fun. It was only three days, but when the cameras were on us, something happened. We became ourselves, only more so. It could have been a disaster, all that amplified personality, but while Sandwich Wars was here, we had to face ourselves in new ways. We learned how we really felt about each other. For instance, it became clear which waitresses truly hated each other — whose tray-knocking and ice-cube spilling was mean-spirited, and whose was simply a clumsy accident. It turns out Sandy, the oldest of the waitresses — stringy-haired, swollen-ankled — really does hate Shelly, as we've all long suspected. This became immediately apparent when the cameras turned on, apparent when Sandwich Wars asked the girls to race through the streets in their aprons, carrying trays loaded with deli meats and fresh bread on a bizarre scavenger hunt. Sandy tripped Shelly — it's in the episode — and Shelly threw slices of bread and cried while Sandy laughed and laughed in her scratchy voice. "This is great TV," Rick Holland said, combing his hand through his curly hair, sliding his thumb through a belt loop. "There's nothing like a footrace in skirts." But now the show has aired and we've worked the many rushes that followed and we've been interviewed by the Kenosha News and we aren't really sure what could happen next.
Before Sandwich Wars, we were able to come here and just do our jobs. During Sandwich Wars, were able to imagine ourselves moving on someday. Even me. But the truth is, we're not going anywhere. Not most of us, anyway. While Sandwich Wars was here, we weren't just a diner. We were authentic and we were quaint and we served up the best reuben in the nation. Rick Holland said so. And we weren't just sad restaurant people wondering what we'd missed. We were interesting characters and our flaws weren't just flaws, they were made-for-TV flaws. We even forgot — if just for a moment — that we had any flaws at all.
*
Right now our waitresses are Sandy, Shelly, Marissa, Jenny, and Ellie. Ellie is eighteen years younger than me. She studies communications at the tech school, although in her heart she wants to be an actress. She puts a third of her tips in a jar at home in case someday she works up the courage to leave Wisconsin. Ellie's my favorite, in all the years I've been here. She is happy, blonde, perfect smile, and I truly believe she could make it in Hollywood — or anywhere. I tell her this, even though I don't want her to leave. We are friends. In the 17 months she's worked at Sammy's, I've listened to her boyfriend troubles and her mother troubles and all those other dramas young women have. We get along. When we learned Sandwich Wars was coming, Ellie ran straight to me and grabbed my shoulders and opened her mouth wide, and smiled, and screamed, and said, "Raymond! Do you think this could be my big break?"
"I think it could, kiddo," I said. "I think it could." And I really did.
Ellie screamed again and kissed my cheek. First time ever. "I need to get my hair done," she said. "And my nails."
And I nodded and thought, no you don't.
*
Sammy's Diner has been in my family since 1937; I started working here when I was a kid, bussing tables. It's what I still do. When my brother, Paul, who now owns the place, isn't around, I'm in charge. Mostly, though, I bus. During a rush I carry the gray plastic tub from table to table, toss in plates and bowls (I rarely break anything), wipe everything down with 2% bleach solution. I'm a machine, and I like that I'm a machine. Sometimes I'll have the whole dining room clean before I even realize I've done anything at all. I get lost in my thoughts, and then the dining room is cleaned up and sometimes, for a moment, I wonder if somebody else did it.
This restaurant's not all I've done. I went to school for business, then I came back to help the family out. It's what I was supposed to do. Still, I've stopped bothering to tell anyone I'm more than just a graying busser with a beer belly and a backache, because I'm not really sure that I am anymore. When Sandwich Wars came and set up, I knew I'd just be the guy with a bus pan in the background, a white rag tucked in his back pocket, shuffling from table to table — even if, with the cameras there, I dared to dream of more.
Sammy's hasn't been remodeled since I was a kid. When a booth rips, we apply vinyl tape. The formica on the lunch counter is chipped, and we don't fix it. The wallpaper has gone beige, its lavender-colored flowers faded. Sometimes I think no one else notices, or cares. If I owned this place, I'd change the walls first thing. Paint it bright and modern. I believe we could try to keep up with the times, but we haven't. Then again, it doesn't seem to harm business, and maybe that's why Paul owns Sammy's and I do not.
*
The whole crew of Sandwich Wars arrived at once, including Rick Holland. They filed in like an invasion, which we didn't fight off. They came with black bags and black t-shirts and took over the place. They were pleasant enough. Rick Holland, it turns out, is even better looking in person than on TV. When she saw him, Ellie's eyes widened and she looked at me and held her right hand up to conceal that she was pointing at him with her other hand and she mouthed oh my God. I smiled -- what else could I do? I smiled, and then I said, "Go get 'em," and I don't even know what I meant, but I think she thought I said "Go get him," and she said, "Yeah. Yeah, I should."
And what happened next is Rick Holland put his arm around Ellie and told her he didn't expect to find a girl like Ellie in Kenosha, and Ellie told Rick Holland she didn't plan on staying here, and he told her she really shouldn't, and they headed out the door while the crew of workers sorted out just how things were going to go down here at Sammy's.
*
They set up in the back corner, away from the windows in two booths where the wallpaper is coming loose. That's where they kept the donuts and signed in extras — beautiful people they'd hired to smile at each other and eat our food. A week before they came, I washed the windows and dusted the neon. The girls stayed late and scrubbed the chrome chair legs. We wanted to put our best face forward. We wanted to sparkle, be exceptional. When the frantic redhead walked in, she stared at the windows for about five minutes and then frowned and said, "It's so clean. Can we hire some kids to muss up these windows?" I took a seat at the counter and watched her trace her fingers down the glass.
*
Sometimes we watch the episode at Sandy's house after close. It's just me and all the girls, because Paul doesn't fraternize and the dishwashers and cooks aren't interested. I bring six-packs of beer and bags of chips and we all pile onto Sandy's pillowy couch or stretch out on the floor and Sandy loads up the TiVo and says, "God, what if I accidentally delete this someday?" and we all shake our heads and say, "No! Don't let that happen!" We won the sandwich war, against a deli in St. Louis, and we have a plaque and an autographed photo of Rick Holland on the wall, but if we lost the episode, it might be like it never happened at all. Ellie sits next to me. First we watch the preview, which features a close-up of her — it's perfect — and she always yells, "My face is so big!" and we laugh. It does look big, because Sandy has a big TV and in the preview, Ellie's clear, deserving face fills the whole screen. She's only there for a second, though, and then the preview is done and she's gone.
*
Watching the show at Sandy's is half party and half wake. We are celebrating our good fortune. Sandwich Wars! We are mourning what we've lost. What have we lost? We don't know, but we know we've lost something, even if it's something we never actually had. And then there we are, on TV. There's our sandwich. There's the 86 board. There's me, in the background, in my baggy black pants, smiling vacantly at something off screen. When Rick Holland tells us we've won, Sandy tells the camera, emphatically, that we should have a reuben bronzed. We're crowded around the lunch counter. We look happy. We look like this is all we ever wanted from life.
Everybody who works at Sammy's thinks they're going somewhere else. They think it's just a blip on their timeline — and for many, it is. But sure enough, some end up like Sandy, complaining about everything, smoking cigarettes behind the dumpster — forever. Not all of them, of course. Some end up at somebody else's diner. And I suppose some are like me — they leave and come back, but at least I can say it's family duty. I was never actually supposed to move on, and after all, it's different when it's yours — although it's really not, it's not mine, it's my brother's, but still. And, of course, some will move on. Ellie will move on. Her beauty sparkles and cannot be contained by a run-down diner, not even one with the country's best reuben. Besides, in truth, she's not a very good waitress.
*
We have our regular customers and those we don't recognize. We have men not much older than me who sit at the counter and hit on the girls and think that because the girls are nice to them, because they work for tips, they have a chance. I know this because these guys tell me so. They assume I understand, and I do. But they don't have a chance, and I know that, too, because I hear what the girls say after the counter regulars have left. I've heard it for years from all different girls, and I've paid close attention because I don't want anyone saying those things about me.
Since Sandwich Wars, there's a whole new crowd, an additional crowd, and they all want reubens. Nothing but reubens — morning, noon, and night. Paul had to increase our corned beef order. We had to convince the cooks to make sandwiches for breakfast. And even though she's not a very good waitress, a lot of our new customers request Ellie. The other girls complain because they need tables to make tips. I say the customer is always right and help Ellie out when I can. I bus her tables first, and I refill her waters. After these busy shifts she grabs my arm and says, sincerely, "What would I do without you, Ray?" I hold still so she won't let go right away. I don't know how to respond. I know she doesn't need me, but I like that she thinks she does.
*
After the preview with Ellie's big face, the show's opening march of sandwiches across the nation begins. Rick Holland ripping into a bomber in Omaha. Rick Holland dropping lettuce on his shirt in Grand Rapids. Rick Holland and a pita stuffed with falafel. Rick Holland and a turkey club. When our episode starts, Rick Holland is strolling through the weekend farmers market on the lakefront. He picks up a braid of garlic cloves and holds it close to his nostrils and inhales deeply, as though the garlic contains a musky power created to enhance his virility. Maybe it does. Ellie is folded up next to me on the couch, her arms around her legs, her chin on her knees. This isn't the part we are interested in. We're waiting to see ourselves, and when the neon Sammy's sign appears on screen, we all throw our hands up and yell, "Sammy's!" and cheer.
The way the show works is Rick Holland shows up at an unknown restaurant in an overlooked town and pits their signature sandwich against one from another, equally obscure place. But before he even holds the competing sandwich in his hands, he has the waitresses battle for a side prize -- "WOW," Waitress Of the Week -- and the winner gets a $500 Walmart gift card. Although the show is about sandwiches, this section, the competing waitresses, takes up more time than anything else. Rick Holland is right -- it makes good TV. On our episode, the girls run through downtown, in and out of shops, gathering Bic pens and daisies and bottle caps for their scavenger hunt. They do this with pre-loaded trays. Ellie drops hers right out of the gate, but she does so with grace. On TV, she dusts herself off and laughs. At Sandy's, I nudge her with my elbow when we get to this part. Ellie covers her face with her hands and says, "Oh, God, I don't want to see that again," but I can tell she's smiling. I tell her it's a good thing she's clumsy because otherwise she'd be perfect and no one would be able to stand her. Ellie peeks at me through her fingers and rolls her eyes. Sandy, on the floor, snorts.
After the WOW race, Rick Holland finally tries our sandwich. But before he bites into it, he gives a brief but boring history of the reuben. He talks about Lithuanians and Omaha and authentic rye bread (which we use). Then he digs in. He opens his mouth wide and chews vigorously and his eyes roll back in his head. Sauerkraut clings to his chin. After a few chews he grunts and, with a full mouth, tells the camera, "That's good stuff." By now we've all watched the show so many times that we know when he says it and so we join Rick Holland on the TV and yell along with him: That's good stuff! I open a beer and pass it to Ellie and she takes it and we laugh. Maybe we've watched it too many times. Maybe we're drunk. But it is. It is good stuff.
The episode doesn't end with a sandwich, though. In the final few minutes, Rick Holland stands at our lunch counter in his plaid flannel shirt and gives another history, this time of malted milk, which was invented just north of here, in Racine. He waves both hands in a direction we know is not north, but it doesn't matter on TV. This is the treat part of the episode; the extra. Ellie was chosen by Rick Holland, or the crew, to make a malt for TV. The camera first focuses on her hands, with their freshly-done pink nails. Then it backs up. She's holding the metal malt can at the blender. "I make them thick," she tells the camera, and winks. Not an exaggerated wink, and not a scary I've-been-working-in-this-diner-too-long, gum-chewing sort of wink. It's subtle, and it's adorable, and sometimes I miss it because I'm looking at the real Ellie next to me.
It goes quickly. The show jumps to Ellie placing the malt in front of a seated Rick Holland, who waits expectantly. Then she's sitting across from him. Then Ellie and Rick Holland are sharing the malt with two bendy straws sunk deep into the ribbed fountain glass, their foreheads touching. They slurp and gaze at each other and although it doesn't take long, it feels like forever. I breathe as quietly as I can. I want it to be over, but I can't stop what happens next. Suddenly, on TV, Rick Holland throws his back against the booth as though he's been shot, or pushed, or simply died from delight. He closes his eyes and slides along the booth and rests his head on the wall and moans a little — or, a lot — and says, "Mmm, Ellie, that's so good."
On TV, Ellie smiles her broad, proud, lovely smile. She has made a good malt. On the couch next to me, in Sandy's apartment, Ellie starts to cry. I hand her a package of travel tissues, which I've begun bringing to these parties, and she lets me hold her hand, which kills me. Then she takes a tissue and dabs her eyes and looks at me and says, "I'm so silly," and I tell her no, she's not, and she says, "Yes, I am. It's just —" and she blows her nose and I hold my breath because I'm afraid to move at all, and she continues: "I'm just so happy we won. You know?" On TV, Rick Holland, back at our lunch counter, wraps up the show by saying how much he loves Kenosha. He gives his signature, closing bite into a sandwich and garbled, "See you next week!" Sandy turns off the TV and everyone takes a sip from their beer. I squeeze Ellie's hand and nod. "Yes," I say. "I know."
© 2014 Mollie Boutell
