Chapter Eleven - Snack Run: The Sacred Pilgrimage of Munch

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Snack Run: The Sacred Pilgrimage of Munch

I EMERGE FROM the doggy store with my soul lightly stirred and my stomach loudly angry.

I do a full spin on the tiled floor, sniffing the air like a predator.
Cinnamon. Fried. Pickle. Garlic. Corn dog.
What do I want?

Everything.

I start with the pretzel place. The guy behind the counter is aggressively generous with the free samples.
He’s holding out little pretzel nugget spears like he’s guarding the Temple of Snack Doom.

“Want a bite?”
Buddy, I want a life.

I take two. Pretend it’s one.
Chew like I’m in a commercial. Nod respectfully. Move on.

Next stop: the forbidden corn dog hut.
No one knows who owns this place. It’s just always there.
The menu hasn’t changed since 1998, and I’m almost positive the ketchup has gained consciousness.

I order one. Just one.
It comes in a little paper boat with a napkin that dissolves on contact.
The corn dog is transcendent.
Like if nostalgia and self-hate had a crispy, savory baby.

I dunk it into honey mustard like a baptized child of sodium.
It’s beautiful. I might cry.
But no time for tears.

Across the food court: a smoothie stand.
Every employee here is either 14 or 90. There is no in-between.
The kid behind the blender gives me a look like I’m the chosen one.

“Blueberry Banana or Mango Madness?”

I whisper,

“Surprise me.”

He hands me a cup that tastes like summer, healing, and a minor sugar crash.
Worth it.

I sit at a sticky table, surrounded by families, mall cops, and a kid who’s crying because he dropped his curly fry.
I hand him one of mine.
He stops crying.
Nods like we’ve made peace between nations.

This is communion.
This is sacred.
This is Mall Snack Hour.