An Open Letter To The Artists

Dear Subway® Sandwich Artist,

I work very hard to tell compelling stories in screenplays, and so far, I’ve made very little money at it. So I feel you. I understand your plight. Truly.

You have to stand there on your feet all day behind the sneeze-guard plexiglass, asking people what type of bread, what meat and cheese, which of the seemingly endless combinations of fixins they’d like on their footlong.

And I’ve seen your customer base. They’re base all right. Rude, condescending, downright smarmy if you look cute in that black visor. They bark orders at you, getting frustrated when you can’t read their noncommittal little minds. My God, they ask what kind of bread you have when it’s right there on the placard!

Let's not even talk about those middle-aged trophy wives and the ridiculous demands they have for their wraps.

Again, I get it. I am your witness.

Substitute executive producer for customer, and tension and humor for Genoa salami and jalapeños, and we are the same.

We’re brethren.

So it is with nothing but love that I point this out.

In his recent book The Devil’s Guide to Hollywood, Joe Eszterhas suggests, “Don’t ever refer to yourself as an artist.”

Sage advice indeed.

As I said, I understand how difficult your job can be. But -– and again, take this as a non-judgmental, open-hearted suggestion on how you might improve your important work –- to my way of thinking, a true artist could get it right -– or at least make an actual, discernable effort -– when I ask for “just a little mustard and just a little mayonnaise.” And yet, Sandwich Artist, no matter how slowly I speak, no matter the eye contact I hold, no matter the emphasis I put on my request (a request an informal poll of 23 eaters of sandwiches assures me is a reasonable one), you still positively swaddle my goddamn sandwich in mustard and mayo.

And I think it hurts so much because I know you’re an artist. Or at least claim to be.

So please, brother or sister, I ask this of you: either take care with the condiments of your craft, as an artist would, or call yourself a sandwich maker.

In Solidarity,
David
(Or, as you might remember me: six-inch wheat, turkey and pepper jack, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, cucumbers, green peppers, jalapeños, just a little mustard, just a little mayonnaise)