#sheetzrun

Image represents me dancing with an anthropomorphic phoenix or firebird.

Friday the 13th rolled around, and with our income stable again, Milo decided it was the perfect time to bring his almost 10-year-old son, Milo Junior (or Junior, for short), home for the weekend. We made sure everything was set: the two dogs were put away, Mom was safely buckled into the shotgun seat, and off we went, heading towards Hubbard. The trip itself was uneventful, but we arrived early enough to chat with Ann, Junior’s mom.

While we caught up, I got to hold her new puppy, Gizmo—an adorable ball of fur, named after the famous gremlin because of his spots. As we were playing with the puppy, Junior’s school van pulled up. The moment he spotted us, his face lit up with pure joy. It was a surprise visit—he had no idea we were coming.

Once we got him squared away, we started heading back towards Warren. As we passed through Niles, Milo handed me his phone. “Hey, Junior, wanna see what Daddy does for work now?”

“Sure!” Junior said, eager to see.

I loaded up the Dasher app, but "dash by the time" wasn’t available—just one of those mild annoyances we run into sometimes. I let Milo and Mom know as I switched to by the dash.

“I bet we’ll get one where we have to go to Timbuktu for chump change, knowing our rotten luck,” I muttered, setting the phone on my leg. Sure enough—ding-ding!—we got a dash for Firebirds Bar and Grill.

This time, though, we had special instructions: park in a designated spot and wait because they offered curbside service. I explained what we needed to do, we found the spot, and I sent off a quick text to let them know we were there.

Junior kept himself busy, playing some shooter game on Ann’s old phone while we waited. A few minutes passed, and the Dasher app dinged again, grabbing my attention. It said something along the lines of, “It’s taking longer than expected with your order. We’ve notified the customer. Please call or go inside to check on it.”

I double-checked the text I had sent earlier and realized I’d messed up—I’d typed 339 instead of 330 for the area code. Classic. I corrected it and decided to call Firebirds a minute later. They told me to come inside, so in I went.

The second I stepped inside, I immediately felt underdressed. Firebirds is the top bar and grill in town. It wasn’t suit and tie, evening gown fancy, but everyone there looked sharp in button-down shirts and expensive clothes, not a hair out of place. Meanwhile, there I was—standing in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, with my hair a flyaway mess from the wind.

Mind you, my hair is always a bit of a mess unless I practically drown it in hairspray to tame the strands that don’t fit in my ponytail. It’s hard to embarrass me, but I’m pretty sure I was blushing fifty shades of red as I explained to the hostess at the little podium what I was doing there. She gave a polite nod and disappeared around the corner.

Curious, I stepped around the podium and took in the scene. The swankiness was overwhelming, almost like I’d been sent there as part of some prank. Everything was high-class: tables artistically scattered, cloth-rolled silverware and pristine placemats neatly set in front of every chair. Even the bar was lined with expensive bottles of fine wine and top-shelf vodka.

It was a far cry from the little hole-in-the-wall bars my dad used to drag Mom and me to when I was a kid. I felt a pang and quickly pulled my thoughts away from those memories before they ruined my mood. Dad died of alcohol poisoning, and even after 13 years, the sting of that loss hasn’t gone away. Maybe it never will.

Just then, the hostess returned with the order. I collected the customer’s salad and headed back to the Trailblazer.

The next stop was Sheetz. I glanced at the phone, assuming it was the Sheetz just up the road. But then I noticed something odd—Mahoning Ave.

"Strange," I muttered. "There’s no Sheetz there."

Then I saw it: Youngstown.

"Youngstown?!" I exclaimed, stopping just short of the Trailblazer. Both Milo and Mom echoed the word in surprise. Even Junior looked up from his game, his eyes bright with curiosity.

I climbed into the car, plopped my big red bag on the floorboard hump, and sighed. “That’s what I said.”

I quickly checked the customer’s location—they were in Youngstown too.

“Well, get me there,” Milo said, holding his hand back for the phone.

I hit the directions button and passed it over. He popped the phone into the holder, and with that, we backed out and hit the road.

Junior piped up from the back, "What did they get?"

"A salad," I replied, remembering the order from earlier.

"What about at Sheetz?"

"I'm not sure. We’ll find out when we get there."

"Okay."

With nothing else to do, I pulled out my tablet and dove into Nano Machine, a martial arts-inspired fantasy adventure on Webtoons. I was just getting lost in the action when Milo suddenly chimed in, "Hot dang, I’m riding with the big boys again!"

I looked up, realizing we were cruising down State Route 11 at 70 miles an hour, sandwiched between two semis—what truckers call riding in the "rocking chair."

Milo, always full of humor, broke into a little ditty, humming to the tune of I’m Getting Married: "Oh, I’m in the rocking chair with Ma, son, and wifie!"

I silently cracked up. Only Milo.

We barreled on, hitting Route 711—the newest freeway that connects Youngstown to Warren. It’s all cement, so naturally, it earned the nickname “the million-dollar highway.” The tires went thunk-thunk-thunk as we rolled along at about 60 miles per hour, finally coming off into the suburbs of Youngstown.

Soon, we pulled into Sheetz on Mahoning Ave. Milo handed back his phone and asked for his “horse.”

I dug his cane out from the backseat and waited for him to get out. While I was waiting, I checked the app to see what the customer ordered. A large Core water. What? I stared at the screen, slack-jawed. $9.75 for a salad and a bottle of water. Unbelievable.

Milo noticed my expression. “What’s up, Ad?”

I told him what we were here to pick up.

“Seriously? Water rush.” Milo smirked as he took my arm.

Milo has anxieties, which limit what he can do in new places or crowded areas. But with my love and support, he’s come a long way from the insecure, downtrodden man he was when I met him right after Junior was born. It took me two years to get him to start DoorDash. Finally, after being fired from the Tribune six months ago and spending four months stuck at home, he decided to give it a try—and quickly fell in love with it.

Together, we walked into Sheetz. I guided Milo to the bathroom, then made my way over to the pickup area. The place was bustling, but a gentleman behind the counter gave me a quick nod to let me know he’d be with me soon. While waiting, a sign on a machine caught my eye, and I couldn’t help but smile.

“Broken, do not use. If you plug it in, you might get electrocuted on Friday the 13th!”

Just as I thought about snapping a picture of it, the gentleman from earlier stepped in front of me, blocking the sign. “Customer, right?” he asked.

“Yep,” I nodded.

He turned, grabbed the bagged Core water bottle off to the side, and handed it to me. “Thanks,” I said, still thinking about that sign. I glanced at it one last time, wishing I could’ve snapped a picture. Then I realized I was holding Milo’s phone, so I sent myself a quick text to remember the details for this Tumblr post.

I returned to the bathroom just as Milo was stepping out. “Ready to H2-go?” he asked with a grin.

“Been thinking up puns?” I teased.

“Only for you,” he replied, gesturing for my arm.

I let him take it, and together we walked back to the Trailblazer, where Mom and Junior were waiting.

“Where are we going?” Mom asked from the passenger seat.

“It’s just around the corner,” I replied, trading Milo the phone for his "horse." I added, “Firebirds salad and a water from around the block, talk about a weird order.”

“It’s not the weirdest one. At least it’s not like Milkshake Mission,” Milo quipped.

I smiled and settled into the back seat, watching as Junior rummaged around in the floorboard, looking for something to do since his phone had died. After a bit of searching, he pulled out a newspaper bag full of toy cars. I’d cleaned the Trailblazer earlier but left the bag for him, knowing it would keep him occupied. His eyes lit up as he found the cars, and he settled back happily to play with them.

My heart swelled as I watched him. He might not be my biological son, but I’ve helped raise him, and sometimes it feels like I’m his second mom.

The GPS announced that we were nearing our destination, so I started paying attention to where we were headed to help Milo navigate. A minute later, we pulled into the driveway of a middle-class, two-story home.

I grabbed Milo’s phone, then reached for the food. For a second, I wondered where the water had gone, but then I realized Junior had placed his toy cars on top of it.

“Junior, please don’t cover the customer’s food—you might damage it.”

“Sorry, Ad,” he said sheepishly.

I got out, pulled the salad from my bag, and placed it in the required drop-off spot. After a quick picture for confirmation, I returned to the Trailblazer with the family.

As I ended the dash, $9.75 popped up on the screen. I couldn’t help but think it would’ve been at least a $15 order if it had been “by the time.”

“You know the way home?” I asked Milo, my hand hovering over the Google Maps icon.

“Yeah, right up 46. Let’s grab a few more dashes and call it a night,” Milo replied, steering us back onto the road.

“As long as we don’t get any more salad-and-water runs, we should be good to go,” I joked.

Even Junior laughed at that.

We’re just a bunch of dashing nuts—out here for fun, family, and a little extra money.