Waffle at World's End
It was a conclusion so simple that even my students could have grasped it: the world was over. The constant threats of catastrophic meteors, incompetent politicians playing war, and virulent plague allowed little doubt. And yet, sitting in this Waffle House booth cradling black coffee in one hand and maneuvering pen in the other, disaster feels so far away. That was until the wailing air raid sirens split my eardrums. More bombs.
Bye bye, Marietta.
I scan the room. The Displaced quiver next to each other on the brown tiled floor. They lost their metro homes in the greater Atlanta area or in other war zones along the eastern seaboard. Most lost more than just their homes.
A boy clings to his father and mourns the sister pancaked under the collapsed chapel. Across from him, an elder black couple weeps gently for the demise of their dear son: a firefighter caught in the King Building when bunker busters busted its bunkers. An Episcopalian minister, with her tattered blue robes and ash-stained face, offers words of respite.
They crowd this microcosm. Even the remote corner booth I occupy plays host to three more: a mother who brays incessantly about the noise, an unlucky widower no older than my students, and a violent eight-year-old girl demon named Carla. Carla, who is in desperate need of a leash, recently played 52-Pickup with her glass plate only to lose her “cute child” privileges.
But my report is not about the girl demon or the others I have just listed. I have witnessed a miracle that I feel compelled to preach should humanity survive divine retribution.
My noble truth is this: alongside civilization’s society of first-responding heroes there exists a shadow organization of warriors under our bacon-blinded noses. This group dons the simple blue frocks of seasoned kitchenistas, and their Servsafe® papers are up to date. But behind the hapless demeanor, the endless bottles of syrup, and the tantalizing aroma of fresh waffles, the employees of Waffle House are no less than battle-hardened saviors of civilization.
In normal circumstances, my standing as a tenured academic would be called into question. I might have even been committed. But the world is over, and tenure is overrated.
There is reason why each Waffle House stands alone in seas of rubble. These windows which stand from floor to ceiling have proven to be exceptionally good at stopping the stray bullet. The metal bars seem to be reinforced and run hidden lengths into each building. While bombs level skyscrapers, Dancing Queen plays true through the TouchTunes™ jukebox.
Another proof: whenever there is medical emergency the staff knows precisely what to do. A broken bone is no major obstacle. A poorly timed pregnancy presents no issue. The requisite equipment is at hand. A server flips to the appropriate page in the manual. The bone is reset; the baby is delivered.
I must admit that I was willing to chalk this up to an incredibly detailed employee manual. But I was quickly disillusioned after this morning’s incident. No mere manual could have prepared a simple Waffle House for the firebomb.
Enemy soldiers at approximately 5:13 AM parachuted into the block and moved under cover of darkness. Carla’s cursed snores kept sleep from me; that was how I noticed the shadowed figures moving across the street. I watched them closely and only too late realized they were not friendly. Before I could cry out, an enemy soldier rushed through the foyer and lobbed a firebomb into the room. It arced through the air towards my booth. Before it landed, however, one of the servers – his nametag reads “Chuck” – flipped over the counter and kicked the bomb back into the foyer. As the glass windows are bulletproof, so too are they bomb resistant. The intruder was trapped in the glass box and reduced to ash.
I asked Chuck if he played a lot of soccer. He feigned confusion and wondered if I had been dreaming. It seems that on top of possessing the catlike reflexes of Jackie Chan abusing Adderall, Chuck was also a star thespian for I doubted myself. Only when the girl demon asked about the explosion did I know my truth. Her witnessing the foyer fireball confirms not only that Chuck punted the bomb, but that Waffle House employees are determined that their secret not be set loose.
But I follow truth wherever it leads, and this case is no different. I should like to hear more reports of other Waffle Houses. But for now, this meager report must suffice and be smuggled in secret across the web. Already Chuck and his cohort are suspicious of me. I suspect there is a counter psy-op in the works to suppress my truth. I shall report further when I have more.