The Challenge
by Margaret Emma Brandl
The hotel has a waffle iron that makes giant waffles shaped like Texas, and the whole marching band wants one. It’s a fun trip instead of a performance trip and there’s no schedule but Six Flags and there’s a huge space in the lobby for breakfast but not huge enough for everyone at once so the band moms are telling band members to go back to their rooms when they finish, to make sure they have everything, to meet out at the bus—anything to get them out of the way. But there’s a line and a goal at the end of it and they’re not technically disobeying if they’re not technically finished if they still want a giant waffle shaped like Texas. They’re putting things on their waffles like peanut butter and banana slices; they’re dumping in chocolate chips; they’re scooping the blueberries and blackberries into the batter and the two or three families trying to eat nearby are miffed. The entire marching band wants a giant waffle shaped like Texas and they’re drowning them in butter and syrup, they’re eating them with jelly or honey, they’re holding them in one hand and biting down on them whole, talking about how they like the pockets. The entire marching band wants a giant waffle shaped like Texas but then the waffle iron starts to smoke and sputter; there’s a burning smell and another smell—disgusting—is invading the breakfast space. A band mom rushes over to see that the waffle iron is full of grits—grits and apple juice—and no one seems to know who did it, everyone was talking to someone else in line, no one who has a waffle already cared anymore about or noticed who was doing what, and the hotel manager is coming out, and the waffle iron is being carted off, and they don’t have any more waffle irons so now there are chocolate chips drowning in cups of batter that will never get used. The percussionists are snickering. They’re calling it “the challenge.” They have perfect poker faces; they don’t get caught; they’re always up to something anyway. The next morning, breakfast is cold cereal.
The hotel has a waffle iron that makes giant waffles shaped like Texas, and the whole marching band wants one. It’s a fun trip instead of a performance trip and there’s no schedule but Six Flags and there’s a huge space in the lobby for breakfast but not huge enough for everyone at once so the band moms are telling band members to go back to their rooms when they finish, to make sure they have everything, to meet out at the bus—anything to get them out of the way. But there’s a line and a goal at the end of it and they’re not technically disobeying if they’re not technically finished if they still want a giant waffle shaped like Texas. They’re putting things on their waffles like peanut butter and banana slices; they’re dumping in chocolate chips; they’re scooping the blueberries and blackberries into the batter and the two or three families trying to eat nearby are miffed. The entire marching band wants a giant waffle shaped like Texas and they’re drowning them in butter and syrup, they’re eating them with jelly or honey, they’re holding them in one hand and biting down on them whole, talking about how they like the pockets. The entire marching band wants a giant waffle shaped like Texas but then the waffle iron starts to smoke and sputter; there’s a burning smell and another smell—disgusting—is invading the breakfast space. A band mom rushes over to see that the waffle iron is full of grits—grits and apple juice—and no one seems to know who did it, everyone was talking to someone else in line, no one who has a waffle already cared anymore about or noticed who was doing what, and the hotel manager is coming out, and the waffle iron is being carted off, and they don’t have any more waffle irons so now there are chocolate chips drowning in cups of batter that will never get used. The percussionists are snickering. They’re calling it “the challenge.” They have perfect poker faces; they don’t get caught; they’re always up to something anyway. The next morning, breakfast is cold cereal.