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I Got An Order For...


*Alarm rings*

It’s Saturday early afternoon and Garrett rolls over and presses snooze for the sixth time. His mom, Carol knocks on the door begging him to finally get up and eat the breakfast she made for him two hours ago. “Why did I move back home for the summer,” sleepily mumbles Garrett as he reaches for his Juul and grabs his favorite Missouri State hat.

*Inhales*

“Ok let’s do this”.

Garrett starts up his car, puts Old Town Road, and drives to work.

“Man I love this song”.

Garrett stands off to the side of the counter. Phone rings.

“Jimmy Johns.........okay so I have a #12 no mayo and a Garg no veggies. Can I get a name for your order? Okay, Chris we’ll see you soon.”

Driving down Carman Road, Garrett is ping-ponging his head left to right searching for the Skibbe household. You’ll know which house it is. What did Chris mean by that? What a weirdo.

As Garrett continues down the road he sees the line of cars double parked in the grass like there it’s a country concert at the Hollywood Casino Amphitheater. Garrett pulls over and walks down the Skibbe’s driveway. He sees tens of dozens of people, sitting around a swimming pool, sitting in chairs around the fence line, drinking their favorite adult beverages like it’s coming out of a fire hose, and a handful of people playing wiffleball.

“I got an order for a.....Chris?”

“Hell yeah,” Chris calls out and sets down his black cherry flavored spiked seltzer. “Thanks man”.

Garrett walks back into Jimmy Johns still confused at what he saw. What was that? All those people playing wiffleball? Who has time for all that?

Garrett’s moment to himself is interrupted as the phone rings again. “Jimmy Johns.... #11 and a Turkey Tom extra mayo and 2 bags of BBQ chips, got it. We’ll have that over to you soon, Sam”.

Wait a minute, this address looks familiar. Also, pretty basic order.

So down Deitrich Road Garrett goes. Winding the turns a little too quickly, swerving into the other lane briefly. As he pulls up to the Skibbe house, he notices that the amount of cars has doubled and the driveway is blocked by a beat up 2006 Honda Accord. What the.... Okay I’ll just park along Huntley Heights Drive in the Ridgemont neighborhood and walk around. What could go wrong?

“I got an order for Sam!”

Garrett walks back to his car he notices a woman putting out 3 homemade ‘NO PARKING’ signs along her front lawn. Odd, this seems kind of unnecessary. Gotta fight for parking spaces I guess with that rad wiffleball tournament going on.

Garrett, getting pretty tired at this point, opens the door to Jimmy Johns and heads to the back of the store and finds the chocolate chip cookie he hid behind some of the extra boxes of chips. This is just what I needed. A little pick-me-up.

*Phone rings*

“Jimmy Johns! Okay so I have two Gargs, one Italian Night Club, two Bootleggers, with 3 bags of thinny chips, and 2 powerades. See you soon Brian”. Wait a minute here.

Right turn on Dietrich, left on Carman, turn down Huntley Heights Drive. Garrett notices the line of cars down the street grew as he waves hello to the ‘NO PARKING’ sign lady who is now sitting in a lawn chair on the side of the road with two more signs. She annoyingly smirks.

“Order for Peter!”

*Loud cheering*

“Hey that’s me!” Peter blurts out as he executes the perfect dizzy bat, launching the can into the neighboring backyard. *dry heaves* “Thanks, bud” *burp* as he stumbles over to Garrett.

*Phone rings*

Right turn, left turn, left turn. Waves hello to the Ridgemont parking attendant lady. 6 signs in total now.

“Trent your order is here!”

“Can I pay you in Bombay Sapphire?” Trent asks aggressively. “Uh, no thanks, I’m sorta working but next time maybe,” Garrett answers, admiring the flashy jersey of the Diamondbacks.

*Phone rings*

Right turn, left turn, left turn. Waves hello. 8 signs.

“I got an orde-“

“LOOK OUT!”

Garrett hits the ground as a yellow projectile is hurled his way narrowly missing him. A kid wearing an A’s jersey was the attempted murderer.

Getting back up to his feet “Order for Spencer”

“What do I owe you?” approaches Spencer.

“Actually, can you tell me, how often do you guys play wiffleball?”

“Well we play every year over Memorial Day weekend,” Spencer replies.

“Wow I would love to play next year, is there an open spot on a team?”

At that moment a man dressed in an orange jersey sprints over, “Hi I’m Bryan, welcome to the SWBL Astros.”

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