Midways

Midways

Royce’s phone chimed, alerting to a text. It advised about a delivery, left inside his front gate. He salivated over what the package contained – the world’s greatest cookies.

Reaching his house, he hurried to the gate, only to find an empty walkway. Royce’s anticipation gave way to dismay. He checked his phone and verified the address. It matched his correctly, almost. The designation of East had been left off his 4725 Fairlawn Street name. His need for the cookies pressed him to overlook the twenty-minute drive across town to check if West 4725 Fairlawn Street existed.

On the way, Royce reminisced on finding the cookies at a roadside attraction shaped like a coffee pot on Route 50 outside of Kinsley, Kansas. The owner called his cookies Midways in honor of Kinsley being the halfway point between New York and San Francisco. The baker smiled when he whispered that the secret ingredient he called chocolate sod came from “somewhere around Kinsley”. When he mentioned Royce was enjoying the last Midway due to his retirement, Royce talked the baker into shipping him a last batch.

West 4725 Fairlawn Street did exist, along with a gate. Royce’s search proved cookieless. He decided to try the occupants. When the door opened, a man with a mouthful of chocolate said, “What do you want?”

Royce replied, “I was expecting a shipment of cookies, and it looks like you might have gotten them in error.”

The man chuckled. “I don’t think so.”

“I don’t think it’s funny. Chocolate’s all over your face.”

“So what’s in them?” the man asked.

Royce thought for a moment. “Sod.”

With a disgusted look on his face, the man said, “I don’t think it’s funny either,” whereupon he retrieved the box of Midways and shoved it into Royce’s hands.