Metal clanking against metal wakes me up just before sunrise yet again. I slither out from beneath my warm comforter, a cocoon necessary for sleeping in an old house in a Michigan January, and open up the blinds. I look down and see a man pulling out a ramp from the back of the dirty metal truck he drove from God knows where to a Jimmy Johns in a college town.

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A woman working the early shift at the sandwich shop (I wonder how many are doing the same across the country) opens up the back door after hearing the commotion outside. She hardly says hello, surely because she’s done this dozens of times before, and props open the door for the man.

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It’s downright magical that he was even able to maneuver his semi into the narrow lot off of a busy intersection. He parks so close to my property that the truck brushes against the pine tree in my front yard. He has to squeeze between the fence that separates my house from the lot just to get from the cab of the truck to the back of it.

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He piles boxes on top of the cart in his truck, then tips it backwards as he takes hurried steps down the ramp while pushing forward. Hurried may not even be the correct adjective. It’s more of a jog, and I wonder if he’s running behind. Who knows how many other chain shops he has to deliver to this morning.

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He flies back out of the store with his cart now empty and catapults into the truck, brushing a blue curtain that hangs from its opening out of his way. One load, two loads, three loads, four. Then I lose count.

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Who knows what’s in the boxes, but its surly something that goes unnoticed and unappreciated by the average Jimmy Johns consumer. Maybe it’s heavy rolls of black, branded stickers that get slapped onto the wrapper of each sandwich. Maybe it’s the gloves that each sandwich artist wears upon receiving your order of the #5 Vito. What else is involved in sandwich making? I couldn’t tell you.

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“Subs so fast you’ll freak” is printed on the backs of the Jimmy Johns employees’ shirts who are hanging out back and watching the man. As they loaf around, he whizzes in and out, surely improving efficiency for the entire branch. “Good things come from Sysco” is slapped onto the grey metal of the truck, and in this case, it seems to be true. It’s impossible to tell how excited the man truly is to be doing it, but at the very least, he seems to be good at it. Efficiency is key in logistics and fast food chains.

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Perhaps he wishes that he was the student peering out her window and taking notes for a class at the college two blocks up the road. Maybe he hates organized education. Or maybe he’s like my dad, who’s a truck driver himself and can’t stand the idea of a desk job. Movement is important to people like my dad, someone who propels his 6-foot-2 frame around with momentum uncommon for a 56-year-old.

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The man suddenly slows down and pulls out the touchpad to complete his delivery. He’s wearing all navy and has on a baseball cap that displays the Sysco logo and the American flag. As he walks back toward the cab of the truck, I can’t help but hope they gave him a sandwich for the road.