I’m looking over the newspapers, waiting for my order number to be shouted out. One line of customers is being served by a Wawa clerk ringing up clients. A pretty coworker mans the adjacent register keeping up with the barrage of coffee, burritos, and newspapers.
When both lanes clear, the clerk turns to her and says “Did I tell you my nightmare about Friendly’s?”
Well, well, a gift from the literary deities, a naturally occurring writing prompt. What horror occurred within the ice cream wonderland? Did the milkshake mixer pull in an unwilling arm? Does the chocolate syrup have the consistency of blood? Did the clown’s face in a Kids Sundae frown and hand a balloon to a little girl?
I amble closer pretending to look over the lottery tickets. It’s loud in the store as people chat and approach the registers. The clerk mentions something about a fish sandwich and pistachio ice cream before the throng cuts the conversation short. I drift over to the sandwich counter pondering the meaty details of this dream.
I assume he’s having dinner at Friendly’s after a day of pouring out soup, or refilling the coffee urns. He settles into the booth and looks over the placemat which serves as the menu in these times of Covid. The table is sticky from the last child occupying his position on the red plastic seat. The menu has chocolate fingerprints positioned over the entrees.
Between the thumb and forefinger is the description of the Fishamajig Super Melt. He’s starving and craves Haddock, fries, and Cole slaw.
He orders his entre, to be proceeded by clam chowder. He’s going full Catholic Lent, possibly in atonement for placing the bag of Doritos back on the shelf after sneaking a few chips.
A vanilla milkshake will wash things down. It arrives in a chilled metallic container, sweating moisture from its shell. He takes the straw, opens the end, blows into it, and torpedoes the paper wrapping into the noggin of a lad in the next booth.
He looks down, minding his own business, but glances up, just a little, for a reaction. The boy calls out “Hey” and looks for the perp. His mother glances around also, appears to suspect the clerk, but shrugs and tells her son to forget about it.
The clerk reaches for the long spoon after an unsuccessful attempt to suck the thick concoction through his straw. Ladling ice cream into his mouth, he swallows, invoking sheer ecstasy as the fluid plunges into his stomach. Shock sets in as an ice cream headache triggers. He holds his head and moans.
The boy and his mother see this and chuckle. Surely karma has struck this malefactor.
The chowder arrives. It’s steaming and burns the roof of his mouth. His poor head has experienced extreme cold and hot over just a few seconds. He blows on it, adds in those tasty chowder crackers, and dares a second swallow. He slurps the shake and is rewarded with unthreatening sweetness.
The fish sandwich arrives. He touches the toast for temperature extremes and samples a French fry. Not too hot and just the right amount of grease. He downs the meal, and, as the plate is whisked away, studies the desserts. Two scoops of Pistachio would be just right.
He orders M&Ms as a topping. When it arrives, he rearranges the candies into a happy face. He turns the whipped cream into a beard.
The young boy, the victim of the surprise assault, walks by with his mother, who is holding their check. The lad mumbles a ‘heh, heh’ which unsettles the clerk.
Wait a minute, what did he do? Is he in cahoots with the waitress? He examines his ice cream. Are those pistachio nuts or boogers? He digs in anyway, but, increasingly convinced that his dessert has been befouled, stops and runs off toward the Men’s room, holding his mouth. The restroom is near the entrance and he sees a car pulling out with his nemesis in a car seat in the back. The boy sees him, then sticks his finger up his nose and smiles.
This is the end of my imagined retelling. I push through the Wawa doors, a tuna shortie in hand. I see the clerk puffing away under the No Loitering sign. His companion is chewing gum and listening as he finishes the story. He stubs out the cigarette as they reenter the store. He shakes his head. “No more Friendly’s, or for that matter, Pistachio ice cream, for me.”
When both lanes clear, the clerk turns to her and says “Did I tell you my nightmare about Friendly’s?”
Well, well, a gift from the literary deities, a naturally occurring writing prompt. What horror occurred within the ice cream wonderland? Did the milkshake mixer pull in an unwilling arm? Does the chocolate syrup have the consistency of blood? Did the clown’s face in a Kids Sundae frown and hand a balloon to a little girl?
I amble closer pretending to look over the lottery tickets. It’s loud in the store as people chat and approach the registers. The clerk mentions something about a fish sandwich and pistachio ice cream before the throng cuts the conversation short. I drift over to the sandwich counter pondering the meaty details of this dream.
I assume he’s having dinner at Friendly’s after a day of pouring out soup, or refilling the coffee urns. He settles into the booth and looks over the placemat which serves as the menu in these times of Covid. The table is sticky from the last child occupying his position on the red plastic seat. The menu has chocolate fingerprints positioned over the entrees.
Between the thumb and forefinger is the description of the Fishamajig Super Melt. He’s starving and craves Haddock, fries, and Cole slaw.
He orders his entre, to be proceeded by clam chowder. He’s going full Catholic Lent, possibly in atonement for placing the bag of Doritos back on the shelf after sneaking a few chips.
A vanilla milkshake will wash things down. It arrives in a chilled metallic container, sweating moisture from its shell. He takes the straw, opens the end, blows into it, and torpedoes the paper wrapping into the noggin of a lad in the next booth.
He looks down, minding his own business, but glances up, just a little, for a reaction. The boy calls out “Hey” and looks for the perp. His mother glances around also, appears to suspect the clerk, but shrugs and tells her son to forget about it.
The clerk reaches for the long spoon after an unsuccessful attempt to suck the thick concoction through his straw. Ladling ice cream into his mouth, he swallows, invoking sheer ecstasy as the fluid plunges into his stomach. Shock sets in as an ice cream headache triggers. He holds his head and moans.
The boy and his mother see this and chuckle. Surely karma has struck this malefactor.
The chowder arrives. It’s steaming and burns the roof of his mouth. His poor head has experienced extreme cold and hot over just a few seconds. He blows on it, adds in those tasty chowder crackers, and dares a second swallow. He slurps the shake and is rewarded with unthreatening sweetness.
The fish sandwich arrives. He touches the toast for temperature extremes and samples a French fry. Not too hot and just the right amount of grease. He downs the meal, and, as the plate is whisked away, studies the desserts. Two scoops of Pistachio would be just right.
He orders M&Ms as a topping. When it arrives, he rearranges the candies into a happy face. He turns the whipped cream into a beard.
The young boy, the victim of the surprise assault, walks by with his mother, who is holding their check. The lad mumbles a ‘heh, heh’ which unsettles the clerk.
Wait a minute, what did he do? Is he in cahoots with the waitress? He examines his ice cream. Are those pistachio nuts or boogers? He digs in anyway, but, increasingly convinced that his dessert has been befouled, stops and runs off toward the Men’s room, holding his mouth. The restroom is near the entrance and he sees a car pulling out with his nemesis in a car seat in the back. The boy sees him, then sticks his finger up his nose and smiles.
This is the end of my imagined retelling. I push through the Wawa doors, a tuna shortie in hand. I see the clerk puffing away under the No Loitering sign. His companion is chewing gum and listening as he finishes the story. He stubs out the cigarette as they reenter the store. He shakes his head. “No more Friendly’s, or for that matter, Pistachio ice cream, for me.”