Anonymous
(ID: 50mJKQoW)
7/23/2025, 5:50:18 AM
No.511107412
>>511107530
>>511107933
>>511107955
>>511107971
>>511108031
>>511108083
>>511108088
>>511108164
>>511108391
>>511110526
>>511110684
>>511111750
>>511111927
>>511112031
>>511112106
>>511112363
>>511112370
>>511112446
>>511114308
>>511114439
>>511114500
>>511114680
>>511114747
7/23/2025, 5:50:18 AM
No.511107412
>>511107530
>>511107933
>>511107955
>>511107971
>>511108031
>>511108083
>>511108088
>>511108164
>>511108391
>>511110526
>>511110684
>>511111750
>>511111927
>>511112031
>>511112106
>>511112363
>>511112370
>>511112446
>>511114308
>>511114439
>>511114500
>>511114680
>>511114747
Jerry.jpg
md5: 364014fb... 🔍
When Jerry first put on his Subway hat in 1990, people didn’t expect much from him.
He had Down syndrome. He didn’t speak much. He shuffled nervously with each customer, terrified of getting an order wrong. But every morning, without fail, he showed up.
And day after day, sandwich after sandwich, Jerry learned. He started remembering people’s orders before they even asked. He learned their names. He greeted them with a smile. Sometimes he’d tell a joke he’d heard from the TV the night before—even if no one understood it, everyone laughed.
Jerry became the heart of that store. The kids who used to come in with their parents grew up and brought their own kids. The walls were repainted, managers changed, the logo evolved. But Jerry stayed.
He never missed a shift. Not when it snowed, not when he twisted his ankle. Not even when his mom passed. “She’d want me to go,” he had whispered, buttoning his green shirt through tears.
For 33 years, Jerry made thousands of sandwiches. But more than that—he made people feel seen.
On his last day, the store was packed.
People lined up not for footlongs—but for Jerry.
The mayor came. The news came. A young man who once had a panic attack at the counter came just to say, “Thank you for being patient with me.”
Then they handed Jerry a plaque:
“33 Years of Service – Thank You, Jerry.”
He held it with trembling hands and smiled.
Then he whispered to the crowd, in the softest voice:
“Did I do good?”
The store went quiet.
And everyone cried.
He had Down syndrome. He didn’t speak much. He shuffled nervously with each customer, terrified of getting an order wrong. But every morning, without fail, he showed up.
And day after day, sandwich after sandwich, Jerry learned. He started remembering people’s orders before they even asked. He learned their names. He greeted them with a smile. Sometimes he’d tell a joke he’d heard from the TV the night before—even if no one understood it, everyone laughed.
Jerry became the heart of that store. The kids who used to come in with their parents grew up and brought their own kids. The walls were repainted, managers changed, the logo evolved. But Jerry stayed.
He never missed a shift. Not when it snowed, not when he twisted his ankle. Not even when his mom passed. “She’d want me to go,” he had whispered, buttoning his green shirt through tears.
For 33 years, Jerry made thousands of sandwiches. But more than that—he made people feel seen.
On his last day, the store was packed.
People lined up not for footlongs—but for Jerry.
The mayor came. The news came. A young man who once had a panic attack at the counter came just to say, “Thank you for being patient with me.”
Then they handed Jerry a plaque:
“33 Years of Service – Thank You, Jerry.”
He held it with trembling hands and smiled.
Then he whispered to the crowd, in the softest voice:
“Did I do good?”
The store went quiet.
And everyone cried.
