My Friend Used Wawa’s Secret Menu And Now He’s Gritty

Nobody believes me but one night, about a month ago, my friend Mitch and I were at Wawa, ordering gobbler bowls, and an older woman came up to us wearing an old tattered purple Philadelphia Phantoms jersey. “Order from Wawa’s Secret menu, if you dare.” she said. To which Mitch replied, “I don’t know how.” Just then Mitch’s touch screen prompted a question, “Do you need more time?” Phantoms Jersey lady pushed him aside and started chanting in what sounded like a dead language, but it could’ve just been her Delco accent.

She pressed a few buttons and the touchscreen glowed orange. “Order whatever you desire. Just be careful for what you crave.” she warned. Mitch lives a more adventurous life and he ordered from the secret menu, I stuck with the Gobbler. We turned around to thank this good samaritan for the tip but the lady in Phantoms jersey, “Dawn 69”, was gone.

My Gobbler came at it’s usual rate but we waited a long time for Mitch’s order. As time passed, several off-duty Wawa employees stopped in, flipping their lanyard, and flirted with the girl making the hoagies.

Mitch and I kept checking our phones knowing that each minute Mitch’s number wasn’t called was another minute that we were missing out on the WMMR ticket raid.

Finally, Mitch approached the associate behind the counter, “Excuse me, it’s been three hours. I’m still waiting for my order.” The associate quickly apologized and asked to see his ticket.

Mitch handed his slip to the associate who looked puzzled. She conferred ina whisper with the assistant manager. The assistant manager calmly approached us. “Meet me by the hot dogs in three minutes.”

The assistant manager met us by the box of hot dogs and was discreet in his apology “Here is your Gobbler with goat flesh substitute. Congratulations on finding the secret menu. I apologize for the wait, this is on me. Now go.” The assistant manager commanded, before balling up the slip and throwing it at Mitch’s good eye.

Confused and upset, we walked out of the store, but not before saying thank you to the person who had been holding the door open since 3pm.

Lightning struck and the parking lot panhandlers scattered as though they just saw a Bat Signal. We agreed that walking home wasn’t a good idea.

As we walked to the Septa 21 bus, I asked to see what he ordered. He tossed me the crumpled receipt, which I unfolded and read.
“Blood sacrifice. No lettuce. Add bacon.”
Blood sacrifice? Bacon? Yeah, that sounds like Mitch alright….
But then I saw the order number…
“666.”

Mitch shoved the slip into his pocket as, Mitch and I stood, belly to belly, practically gazing into each other’s eyes. It almost felt like an uncomfortable first dance at an arranged marriage reception. We only went a few blocks but it felt like forever, thanks Chestnut construction. The only thing that made time pass was a fellow Septa passenger blasting mumble rap from his phone.

At one point, as Chestnut was going down to one lane for what felt like the 100th time, the power went out on the bus. The few shrieks were suppressed by the slew of people yelling, “Back door!”

Seconds later the power came back on and a sense of relief filled the bus, but that could have been the scent of egg salad that someone began eating in the dark.

When I looked back at Mitch he looked noticeably different. Frantic, his eyes almost looked googly at the rate in which they raced around the bus. Sweat was rolling down his face and into his bushy auburn beard.

I was the only one seeing this, as all other passenger eyes were on the gentleman wearing a plastic bag for a tanktop and yelling about squirrels. The bus driver’s announced, “Sorry folks. Anything can happen with a full moon.”

The one thing we both noticed when the lights came on is that nearly everybody on the bus was wearing a purple phantoms jersey. To make it worse, they were all customized. Freaked out, Mitch pulled the cord and we both exited at the next stop.

We said our goodbyes, mine would’ve been more heartfelt had I known that was the last time I was going to see my friend Mitch.

That night I slept well but I awoke the next morning to a series of rambling texts from Mitch. This day was September 24th and it was Mitch’s birthday. “I don’t feel so good.” “help” “Tummy hurts” “Me hurty badly.” I chalked Mitch’s incoherent text up to him either being Four Loko drunk or just being a basic-ass Libra.

I texted. then called. No response. His Facebook and Instagram lay dormant. My concern grew.

I went to Condom Kingdom, where Mitch works as a shift manager, they said he was a no call, no show. Dread filled the pit of my stomach, and it wasn’t from the gobbler the night prior or the size of the items on the display rack, it was because I knew something had happened to Mitch.

It was just after 11am and I was already late to my job as a continental soldier at the Museum of the American Revolution. I called a Lyft and described to the driver, “I’m the guy dressed as a continental soldier.” To make Lyft driver see me, I waved my musket and fired it, then I reassured scared pedestrians that it was a sawed off hot dog gun and not a real musket I just fired.

The Hyundai Elantra I embarked in was clearly older than the 2014 advertised, but I was off to play my literal role in history.

11:17am. My phone glows orange and buzzes. I have a new Twitter follower. For a moment, the ecstasy of a new follower made me forget all about Mitch. I click on their profile and their only tweet is a picture. The picture is of an orange behemoth. A monster resembling a Furby, if a Furby lost its parents and grew up in and out of prison system than did steroids recreationally.

An odd site none the less but those eyes called to me. Frantic, looking all over the place, googly. They were familiar. They were Mitch’s eyes. What did lady in the Phantoms jersey lady do to him? Was this a curse brought on by Wawa’s secret menu?

That’s when I read the caption, “It me. #Gritty.”