The Sandwich Shop That Time Forgot

Everyone knows that the only thing that never changes is that everything changes. This is especially true about my hometown. Thirty years ago, Alpharetta was the last outpost on the edge of humanity. If Alpharetta had been marked on a medieval map, there would have been a line drawn at its boundaries and a warning that “Here There Be Dragons”. Today, Atlanta has not only swallowed up my little town but all the towns in between. Roswell Road (known to the world as Peachtree Street) is nothing more than one continuous vomitious stream of gas stations, strip malls and fast food crap mongers. Due to the arrival of big businesses like Cingular, Digital, and Coca Cola, Alpharetta has become home to a never ending cycle of transient yuppie’s passing through on their way to middle management. Without exception, I can go anywhere I want in Alpharetta, with only a snowball’s chance of running into someone that actually knows me. I would guess the odds are better for me winning the lottery and having my dick grow 5 inches in the same day. That being said, you get my point and we arrive at my real intentions.
“Dagwoods” is a little sandwich shop, located at the corner of Holcomb Bridge Road and Spalding Drive. I am not sure how long it has been there, but I have been aware of its existence for 22 years. Although I cannot say that I ever became friends with the owners, we were aware of each other and there was a comfort in the familiarity. One of the owners name was Jay. He was a cross between Kenny Loggins and Willie Nelson. His long red hair was always tucked up under a baseball cap, and he always gave off a vibe like he had just finished smoking a fat one. During a particularly lonely part of my life between the years of 25 and 27, Dagwoods became one of my “safe-houses” (the Varsity Junior on Cheshire Bridge is another one). Every Sunday afternoon, you could find me with a pitcher of beer, a bowl of peppercini’s and two glasses (a single person, cannot buy a pitcher of beer, thus the need for my invisible drinking buddy). Some people might label my Sunday afternoons at Dagwoods, pitiful or even depressing. The truth was that I could not have been happier. Then one day, I just stopped going.
I will be forty on March 21st. It has been at least 12 years since I have shown my face at Dagwoods. I stopped by on the way home from work yesterday to have a beer. I want to say that I was shocked at what I saw, but the truth is that I was shocked at what I did not see…change. It was like the place disappeared when I walked out of it last, and reappeared again at that very moment. All of the material things were just as I left them: the same decorations, the same Rock posters…even the same menu. I drew slow slugs off of my beer as my current image of the room compared itself to the scan I had made 12 years ago. Everything was perfect, down to the Captains wafers. I reflected on the impossible speed at which twelve years had passed, and ended up feeling old and fat…then I saw the pictures. On the walls, were photos of Dagwoods esteemed alumni. There was Lori, my favorite waitress; Jay smiled a huge grin as his impossibly beautiful wife clung to his side; skinny kids with big moustaches flipped pizza dough. It was all ancient history. Somehow in its rush, time had overlooked the sandwich shop and kept on going like the proverbial bat out of hell. I have no doubt however, that time will catch up with Dagwoods and turn it into something horrible like a Subway or God forbid a fucking Starbucks. I was thinking that I might stop by Dagwoods again tonight and get a look at the place one more time before I stop going again. Next time, I might not be so lucky.