by Alexander Jacobson
Dear Wawa Culinary Professional,
I would like to overcome the barrier that separates us. That thick sheet of hopefully sterile, but probably just bullet-proof glass has interrupted our communication for too long. My orders have been relegated to a touch-screen, your minimum-wage labor has been devalued even further, and we, evidently, have been prevented from ever making eye contact. Deep in my heart I know that while this barrier seems at first quite formidable, like the Maginot line, if there’s a way around, there’s probably actually a way around. So, in the tradition of Martin Luther King, I will address the issue via an anonymous address in a corner of the internet.
When I go to Wawa, I go for an experience. I go for the anticipation of waiting 25 minutes for my sandwich at 4 in the morning. I go for the suspense of sinking my teeth into a Roast-beef and Swiss Ciabatta Melt without knowing whether the Swiss is actually there or not. I go for the challenge of deciphering the noise you make after you finish an order, the noise that announces whose order it is. And you know what Mr. Wawa Culinary Professional? You deliver each, and every time, so for this I thank you.
However, the true reason I owe you my gratitude has nothing to do with my expectations for a journey to Wawa. Rather, it is because no matter the hour, you’re there. At sunset, when I hear there’s an 80’s party and I need something to keep me flailing around til dawn, your Ciabatta melts are there. When the sun rises and I’m just making it home in my neon sweat suit, your Ciabatta Melts are there. At high noon when I wake up starving and still clothed in silver tights, your Ciabatta Melts are still there… even if you “have no meat, no cheese and no Ciabatta rolls”. It’s a beautiful thing. Thank you Wawa, for consistency and permanence in my years at college.