first time

For those of you outside the Philadelphia area, Wawa is a chain of convenience stores that, more recently, have focused on their sandwich, coffee and take-out foods business. With very few exceptions, most Philadelphians love Wawa and visit them often.

There are at least nine thousand Wawas within five minutes of the place where I work. Several times a month, I will stop at one of them to pick up hoagies for Mrs. Pincus and myself. (That might be the most Philadelphia sentence I've ever written!) Last Monday was one of those times.

I usually choose the Wawa at Route 73 and Remington Avenue, just down the street from Pennsauken High School (home of the still politically-incorrect "Indians"). A few years ago, Wawa introduced a convenient touchscreen system to make ordering sandwiches, salads and other prepared foods a breeze. The system is great. It's fast, accurate and requires little-to-no interaction with any other human being. Each step in the ordering process is given its own screen from which a hungry customer can select the type of sandwich, the type of bread, the type of ingredients, the type of toppings and even the amount of said toppings. (Although, the choice of "a little bit of mayonnaise" is still totally subjectable, leaving the customer at the mercy of a hair-netted, name-tagged, minimum-wage earner.) When the order process is completed, a little box spits out a barcoded receipt. The customer takes the receipt to the cashier to scan. The customer pays and returns to the order area to pick up the tightly wrapped sandwich, usually ready and waiting. Regular customers of Wawa are used to the whole procedure and engage in it often. I know I do.

The whole touchscreen system is very intuitive, even for the most technology-fearing customer. This past Monday, while I punched out my selection for two hoagies, I overheard a guy at another touchscreen terminal. Actually, everybody in the place overheard this guy. He was screaming. 

I have noticed that people who insist on talking on their phones everywhere they go, love to scream. They have no issues with discussing personal issues — at top volume — while casually walking down the street, sitting on a bus, standing in a checkout line at Target or just about any public place. Well, this guy in Wawa was screaming into his phone. As the conversation unfolded, it became clear that he was ordering hoagies for someone who had never eaten a hoagie before. It was not clear (but it was a distinct possibility) if the person on the other end of the conversation had ever seen a hoagie. Perhaps these two — the guy at Wawa and his unseen conversation partner — were new to the area. Perhaps they just moved here and were unfamiliar with the local delicacy known as "the hoagie" and how Philadelphians place it in the same esteem as soft pretzels, "wooder oice" and — yes! — Benjamin Franklin and the "Liverty Bell." I would have given this pair the benefit of the doubt — except the guy was sporting a Phillies cap and an Eagles "Super Bowl Champions" t-shirt.

The conversation went a little like this...

GUY IN WAWA: What size hoagie do you want?

VOICE ON PHONE: Size? What do you mean "size?"

GIW: Size! Six inch? Ten inch?

VOP: Well, how big is the ten inch?

GIW(rolls his eyes and stares at the phone): TEN INCHES! Y'KNOW... LIKE TEN INCHES LONG! Y'KNOW BIG!

VOP: Um, then, six inches, I guess.

GIW: What kind of hoagie do you want?

VOP: Well, what kinds do they have? Do they have chicken salad?

GIW: They have the regular kind that everybody has.

VOP: Do they have Italian? Can I get an Italian, but with chicken salad?

GIW: What? No, they don't have chicken salad! You just want an Italian hoagie, then?

VOP: Well, what's on an Italian hoagie?

GIW: I don't know! I guess the regular stuff that's on an Italian hoagie anywhere!

VOP: Do they have cheese? Can I get cheese? Do they have Swiss cheese? Can I get Swiss cheese on my Italian hoagie? You say they don't have chicken salad? I really wanted an Italian chicken salad hoagie.

At this point, the GIW walks — no! stomps! — away from the touchscreen area and ducks down one of the merchandise aisles. After a minute or so, he emerges, still speaking into his phone at the very top of his voice.

GIW: ... you can can get lettuce, if you want. Yes, and tomatoes. What? No, they don't have chicken salad.

The number on my receipt was called and my hoagies were ready. I picked them up and left.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

red-headed stranger

This may come as a shock to you, but..... I am not a natural redhead. I know, I know — I should have prefaced my opening sentence with SPOILER ALERT, as is common internet etiquette, but, let's be honest, the color of my hair is pretty suspect.

Every six or so weeks, I find myself at a hair salon covered with a big vinyl smock. A young lady slathers my head with a mixture from a tube selected from the far end of their wall-length pallet of hair color. My particular shade comes from a supply that goes untouched between my month-and-a-half visits. After approximately an hour (including the application and a brief, motionless sit under the artificially-intense heat of a dryer plus a trim of what little hair I have left), the look that has become familiar to family, friends and coworkers returns and everything is back to normal. No more gray-tinged roots to throw off the delicate balance and long-time branding that is Josh Pincus.

One recent morning, I was at the train station at the end of my suburban street, awaiting another late train to take me into Philadelphia for work. I removed my cellphone from my pocket and punched up the inaccurate app that was created by SEPTA, the entity that operates the public transportation services in Southeastern Pennsylvania. Reading a report of a mere "two minutes behind schedule," I shoved the phone back into my pocket and waited. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a glimpse of bright red-orange on the station platform about ten feet away from me. I turned my head in the direction of the fiery color. Leaning against a railing that runs the perimeter of the wooden-planked platform, was a tall woman in a beige cloth coat, her gloved hand gripping the handle of a large, leather briefcase. Upon first look, she fit the description of thousands of women seen everyday in the workforce. Except this woman's head was crowned with a coiffure of blazing crimson. A startlingly unnatural color. A color that was very familiar to me.

The woman at the salon who colors my hair has assured me, on many occasions, that I am the sole consumer of that hue. Sometimes, we have even joked about it, sarcastically wondering why anyone else would ever want that color. But now, here I was standing less than a bus-length from someone who has raided my personal hair dye stash.

I thought for sure that everyone at the train station was staring at me and then shifting their eyes to the woman with the briefcase. It was different and way more uncomfortable than showing up at a wedding wearing the exact same dress as the mother of the bride. I knew there was whispering and covert pointing going on behind my back. "They must be related!," I imagined was the exchange in hushed tones between passengers standing along the outside darkened corners of the stone station building. The woman with the briefcase just stood, every-so-often turning her glance towards the empty train tracks, anticipating the arrival of the 7:52. She was oblivious to the silent mockery that flowed through the assembled crowd.

The train was taking forever to arrive. All the while, I could hear murmurs of conversation, snippets of which included "hair," "redhead," color" and "unnatural." I didn't want to turn around. I couldn't. Although I see most of these people every single day, I don't really know any of them. But there they were, passing judgement on me and my choices about my appearance. I couldn't approach the redheaded woman with the briefcase. I didn't know her either. Besides, that would just be weird.

Suddenly, the train pulled into view and chugged up to a stop at the station. Everyone made their way into a rough, irregular queue line and began to board. The woman with the briefcase took her place in line a few folks behind me.

The platform was now empty. Everyone who was waiting was now on the train.

And of course, there was no conversation about my hair, the woman with the briefcase's hair, or anything else related to the two of us.

At least, I don't think there was.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com