One Story by AJ Maiorana
Wawa Ain’t What it Used to Be
One pound stolen shredded pork, one large mac and cheese. We’re feeling greedy, closing up alone. We figure the managers have caught on, but if they could prove it they would’ve fired us already. Grease and cheese sweat together on the walk home. They’re cutting back our hours; they’ve got new hires for the holidays. DJ says he’s got a lead in the city. Button downs and apron uniforms instead of jeans and a tee shirt. We probably won’t give notice. The only thing the next place won’t have is half decent BBQ.
Turkey hoagie, two peach iced teas, half empty bottle of vodka. If they really wanted to keep us out, they’d have wrapped the chains more tightly. Spread Eagle across soccer fields damp from the morning rain. You’re sorry you missed my birthday for the third year in a row. At least I’ll be at yours. It’s all gas now, humidity evaporating into a strong summer. Legally, Sheetz will put anything on a salad. Fiscally, Wawa would hope you ignore the mix up between turkey and ham. The bigger you are, the harder it becomes to care about things like quality control.
Breaded chicken sandwich, Italian hoagie, two beers from the back of the fridge. I’m sweating through the brim of your powder-blue Phillies hat. The subway is blasting heat even in the middle of summer. We rock together in a sardine tin of fans. Both sandwiches are missing the extra pickles. We let lettuce decorate the floor. After the third call out, my bosses are starting to get fed up. The towels are backed up, the cash is all miscounted. If there isn’t a grand slam during this game was it even worth the sweat?
Teriyaki chicken panini, one pack of Marlboro Reds. The snow is still soft on the ground. The teriyaki smells like vinegar. I’m realizing I already like your brand, so I don't buy it. I’d rather not make that association permanent. I juggle cigarette, phone, and sandwich in a display that only the empty winter night would appreciate. I tell the snowmen all my secret thoughts. They seem to know I'm all hot air. All in the moment. It’s about the best therapy I can afford. I walk myself in circles, spelling names I don’t remember in the snow.
AJ Maiorana is a no trick pony and recovering Catholic. He’s had two pushcart prize nominations and work published in Bullshit Lit, Roi Faineant, Mr Bull, and others. He is a former editor on multiple mastheads and is still on twitter. You shouldn’t follow him.
Twitter: @ExtraSauce _
Instagram: @Extra__sauce__
