Reporting for duty, we followed Treasurer Will to an active battlezone. In a sense of purpose and minimal blink loyalty, we rallied at Peden Station with the primary objective to gain funds for our abysmal Club’s Financial dilemma. As we marched onwards, we began to be briefed by our newly appointed sergeant will.
An active conflict of athletic feats were to be taken upon the field. The mighty bobcats were destined to defend against the orchestrated assault of South Alabama. As the ongoing warzone is to be taken upstairs, we were to be deployed deep into the instructional design of the stadium. Our duties would be to hold back the massive hordes of famished customers while trenched in the concession stands.
This greasy trench was to be our home for the next few hours. Yet, no place feels like home without the right attire. Upon instant arrival, we were granted our uniforms. Overly used aprons that originated from a box that read “needs washing”. Instead of shaving our heads, we were equipped with hats. The company’s logo was embroidered into our attire, practically our higher officers and intel.
Without hesitation, our commanding officer put us to work. Mary was a veteran at this trade and in charge to oversee our operations. Under her (Not so much) Strict supervision, we were given our basic training and roles.
In the forefront of the operation were the cashers. Stalwart souls that are tasked to oversee the bastion walls and fight off the hordes with various forms of cheap foods. As our armory was to be depleted, various cooks were to replace the spent supplies. The backbone of the operation, some of our squad were tasked with manning the various machinery provided to us. For those who were untasked, they were to be given the special role of being courtiers. These individuals would assist the cashiers when delivering orders.
In this military campaign, I was given the special role of being a “pretzel maker”. As an artisan, my primary responsibilities were to alter the standard issues knotted frozen pastries, prime them with butter, marinate them in salt and bake them for around four minutes.
Our squad was to be divided in twain. On the West of the burrow, Srg. Will, Pvt.JJ, Pvt.Daniel, Pvt. Rylanne and Pvt. Ripley where to wield one of the hot dog machines and the nacho dispenser while manning two cashers.
In the East, CPL. Chase and Pvt. Sienna were to occupy the cashier stations. Pvt.Kendal is to control the Hot Dog machine and alcoholic drinks, Pvt. Allie is to assist both cashiers, and I was to control the Pretzel stations.
As our division of labor was completed, silence filled the tiny space we were cramped. Upon inspecting each other’s uniforms, a clear depiction of experience was presented. Those who worked at a fast food restaurant had more relaxed mien, compared to those who were new to this type of labor.
I was stationed right next to CPL. Chase. Before the draft, he was known for being the secretary at Rough Cut.
“Have you ever worked concessions before?” I pondered.
“No, but I worked at Subway for a while” He stated “it is practically the same thing.”
I see, CPL. Chase must have been stationed at Fort Subway. Perhaps this is where he obtained his stripes. In hindsight, it seems obvious. The way he handled and almost dismantled his equipment was a testament to his experience. As we discussed our opinions on the matter, his friendliness oozed into the group. In the matter of seconds, he was able to ease the tensions of those who were less experienced.
Our conversation gained traction and eased at times. Like a well placed rollercoaster, I would witness CPL. Chase concealed his face with the brim of his visor. Mere seconds later, he would recover, a smile would populate in its expression accompanied by his humor. A quick explosion that radiated a couple of laughs.
He seems reliable and amicable. Chase’s humor being his biggest weapon, but I cannot deny that I couldn’t help to wonder if he relied too much on this. It seems that it would clash at times with my stoicism.
I cannot be so harsh, in reality, this form of criticism can be applied to me.
Eventually, I was fortunate enough to speak with most of the crew. Pvt. Sienna was in charge of the cash register. While Pvt. Allie was mainly assisting her, I would give minimal assistance while I waited for my pretzels to cook. One particular person I was rather grateful to have would be Pvt. Kendal. At various times, she was kind enough to resupply me with pretzels. Almost like she was an angel sent from above, she had quite the perfect timing.
Unbeknown to us at the time, this operation was already tampered with by the very beginning by no other than fate itself. A sheet was printed and granted to us while we organized ourselves. valuable intel by HQ. Analytic data that displayed estimates of the various supplies we were destined to be spent by us. Fruitful information that would allow us to get a head start of preparing food.
Intel had stated that my operations would portray a total of 50 pretzels. However, as life can be quite uncertain, I was advised by my supervisors to make half of that. This type of narrative was given to all of us cooks. Some listened while others did not. In my case, I was foolish enough to listen to said advice.
The flood gates opened at 17:30. Minor waves of customers gravitated towards the stands for the first few minutes. Mainly students and elderly. Good natured folk that seem chatty, and polite. There was this particular gentleman that would return every few minutes for an extra item. At first, he ordered peanuts, then a pizza, then a beer and so on.
Based on the reaction of everyone, it seemed that we were planning to witness an easy boring night. We became chatty. Our joy and laughter continued into the coming crowds and joined us in conversation at times. Yet, the echo of our acoustics seem to awaken the trouble of the night.
As thirty minutes flew by, an explosion could be heard from the stadium above. An omen of the oncoming troubles and a signal for the games to begin. In typical American tradition, the whole world stopped for the American anthem. A few seconds of peace given by the fireworks above.
As the music stopped and the crowds unfreezed, the chaos began.
From the north came the once smiling customers turned into patient demons. Crawling their way into our fortified walls only to be fought off by the cashers. As we glazed into no man’s land behind the safety of our stronghold, we observed as these ravenous beasts spawn from all directions, surrounding all the neighboring trenches and strongholds.
As those trenches became overrun, the flooding families raced their way into our stations.
An arbitrary form of armament came from these foes. Many of these warriors carried the modernized credit card, while others were antiquated and handled cash. We expected these, however,we were baffled by the quantity of their platoon. As we satisfied one customer, ten more would take its place.
An almost unquenchable thirst linger amidst the masses. Refreshments of various flavors and potency were our most common weaponry. As of any tool within our armory, we have several regulations in place. Pretzels had to be served with paper towels, alcoholic drinks must be sold with a valid id. As the battle reached a boiling point, our safety precautions were lost within the slaughter.
We began to make educated guesses based on the appearance of people. You have kids and a beard? You must be over 21.
I will not assume the worst, but I do wonder if a few deviants manage to squeeze through our legal cracks.
Regular maintenance was needed for our machines of war. Our soda dispenser, Required a frequent resupply of ice. A fairly easy task, however, it did come with an unseen danger.
Our general supplies were across no-man’s land. A simple tent that hosts a plethora of reserves. A rather simple, but grimy shelter that is designed to extend our survival in the exchange of a slim chance of peril. In the most attuned moments, one lucky individual was to venture into these lands and skillfully run through the roughen path, dodge the hordes and return with a heap of supplies.
At certain moments of minimal peace, I was involuntarily volunteered to step up to the task.
A do or die scenario manifested, Our refinery of refreshment began to click as it stalled in ammunition. CLP.Chase and Pvt. Sienna was preoccupied holding the annoyed elderly and Pvt. Kendal was in the process of wrapping hot dogs. As the artillery halted, Pvt. Allie and I stared at each other. With minimal thought, I made my intention clear to Pvt. Allie.
“I will go and grab some ice” I stated.
Her silence represented no resistance, in a way, it demonstrated acknowledgement. As we nodded to each other, I readjusted my cap and raced through the warzone.
Realistically, not much happened. My urgency might have allowed me to cut through some lines and my actions might have accidentally shoved someone. However, in those moments I felt like in a film.
As I fixated my helmet, I dropped my rifle and rushed through the ongoing warzone. Craters in the making as I race, explosion manifested in my near proximity. As the sediment invaded the air, I followed the sound of bullets cutting through the muddy mist. In the adrenaline, I ignore the minor wounds and burning sensation of dirt penetrating my newly given gashes. Crowds of people hyper focused on our bastion ignore my immediate presence. As seconds became minutes, I felt the quiet cheer of my newly created comrades.
The world became quiet as I entered the supply tent. The ongoing onslaught became a mere afterthought as I wrestled through the boxes and disorganization left by the previous officer. Mere seconds of freedom that seem to go to waste due to the high velocity situation I was presented with. In Hindsight, I could have taken longer in that tent, but I refused to leave my friends behind.
Upon returning to my trench, I fed the peckish machine its well needed ice. Amidst the struggle, I felt the angular ice penetrate my skin, a minor cut had formed in my thumb. A simple wound, but a terrifying discovery based upon my current situation. I bandaged my thumb with a plethora of paper towels and sealed it with a glove in order to prevent my blood from touching the food.
Eventually, the hungry horde yearned for prezlets. My duties became fixated in the creation of these pastries. The courtesy of being a runner fell upon the abilities of others. At first, Pvt.Allie rose to this opportunity. After a couple of successful runs, I became accustomed to her heroism and her disappearance became normalized. Especially after she made it clear that she would always return to assist Pvt. Sienna.
As her presence diminished, I was surprised by the arrival of Pvt. Daniel. A replacement of sorts that arrived from western trenches. An underlying hint that Pvt.Allie had succumbed to the horrors of war.
I took a moment to consider it. My thoughts became curious of her absence, but the ongoing swarm dragged my mind back to reality.
“How long until those pretzels are ready?!” – Pvt.JJ exclaimed.
“Four minutes!” – I Responded.
My over preparedness had quickly evolved into under preparedness. The small armaments of pretzels had quickly vanished and the hordes craved their carcinogenic pastries. Limited by the machine itself, I was only able to slowly create four prezlets at a time. A four minute cool down was forced upon me while I waited for the pastries to bake. Other factors altered the timer of the creation of these goodies. Frozen food needed a longer timer to cook.
The oven’s timer became hidden by the outside cries of the crowds, but I was still able to be hyper focused on the time. Without a second to waste, I haphazardly open the door of the oven. The clash of metal competed with the bustling crowds while creating an announcement of its existence. A sweet aroma roamed and delighted those who were near its vicinity.
Like an artist I lean in closer to my machine. The heat caressing my cheeks as I approached our conjoint work of art. The pretzels became golden in appearance and crispy to the touch. A maddening grind manifested on my face as I readjusted my vinyl gloves. In elation, I ignored the burning, almost hurtful, sensation the scorching prezlets emanated and closed my eyes. For my troubles, I took a good whiff. A statement of competency in the fine art of prezlet making.
“ah…What an aroma” – I silently stated to myself
I had forgotten my current reality, the sweet and salty cognition of this prezlet had sent me somewhere more serene. For a moment, I picture myself purchasing one of these, joining the assault,buying a prezlet, and watching the game. Perhaps in a different timeline or galaxy, but not today.
“I am going to need two prezlets” – Pvt.JJ Stated
His piercing concerned eyes gazing deep into my soul. An indirect way for him to pull me out of the fantasy I had cultivated. Without a second thought, I handed him my creation.
With no ending in sight, we became entombed by the masses. Their complaints and inpatient stares piercing through our skin like a recently fired round. Our energy mimicked those of our supplies, minimal and scattered.
The horde’s savage hunger turned into covetous endeavors. Smaller conflicts of interest created as people fought for what wasn’t theirs and cultivated an aura of confusion upon the battlefield. As the final hour manifested, Concessional Armageddon began. The earth cracked open as the weight of the situation laid upon us. Our bones began to creak and our footing started to carve into the soil.
Yet, something within all of us refused to yield. An indomitable aura cultivated via our short term unison and mission. In silence we rallied, sharing glazes of determination as we handed items to each other. Brazed by the second wind, we began to use all forms of ammunition at our disposal. Items that were unpopular, and forgotten became our primary form of ammunition at the time. Bratwurst, for example, replaced the standard hot dog.
An ephemeral fix designed to alleviate pressure, to regain strength and reposition ourselves for a final push.
Our newly granted zest caught the attention of a wandering angel. Mary manifested. Confidence surged as she began to assist us. Trading her harp for a box of prezlets, she guided our final assault with ease. Flashing her status as a weapon, we were able to use her communication skills to defuse the most frantic of customers.
Prezlets were practically flying off the shelves, savory artillery of delight, guiding the assault with the buttery smell of popcorn. The cashers push forward with the unrelenting might of the soda dispenser. Explosions of bubbly elixirs that are pleasant to the taste buds, but callous to the molars. Behind the line, everyone utilizes their weaponry with precision. Mary coordinated our attacks, allowing us to maximize the “damage” created against the masses.
A rumbling detonation shakes the group creating a hole in the mist. A sign of an oncoming finale. As we repeated this process, these groups scattered in various levels of satisfaction. Many content, but I wouldn’t be surprised if one or two were disheartened.
The storm within us defeated the storm around us. The newly created silence was altered to favor our victory. The marching band began to play on the field, fireworks went out and the crowd cheered. Even if these sanguinal echos were not directed towards us, it felt as it did. Not that everyone truly noticed, we were just happy to have survived. So happy, in fact, that we started cleaning our equipment instantly. A sign that we wish to go home.
To my surprise, I found Pvt.Allie after the slaughter. Safe and sound, she seemed to have traded places with Pvt.Daniel during the battle. She was scrubbing away at one of the machinery, cleansing it from all the burn marks and grease. I decided to join her in conversation.
“You survived.” I jokingly said.
Her face constructed a crescent smile. Against the chaotic hordes and concessional ballistics, her mood did not yield.
“I used to work in a kitchen for like three years” She responded “I like it when it’s chaotic and I am under pressure.”
“A sentiment I can understand”.
A bell went off in my head as she stated this. A picture generated in my head as we converse.
Back long ago in my civilian life, I used to be a warehouse worker. There used to be times where the voice of my comrades was unheard. Their cries were ignored by their unruly leaders who refused to kneel in fear to damp their status. Boxes piled upon my friends, drowning them in the process. Injustice generated via inaction, my blood boils at the sight of my friends being slaughtered.
My body ached, my safety vest torn and my soul worn thin. But this lingering thought generated in my mind: I was once in need of aid. Just like everyone drowning in that warehouse, I had cried out for help. But no one came.
Yet, I refuse to let anyone suffer the same fate as I was granted.
Without a second thought my legs began to move. My pains and afflictions were hidden by my inner hatred of the malice of others and this world. As I carried the burdens of this world, I felt my psyche silence, our argumentative thoughts in unison as we assisted the world.
Pressure weighed on me, but I craved more. The adrenaline that rushed in my veins came in a pack of twelve and I was thirteen shots in. I took on more challenges and opportunities, without the need of physical goods or favors. A simple thank you would suffice, it would lift my spirits and rejuvenate me.
My acts of defiance became a guiding light. Granting me purpose, I felt the pressure mount. The weight slowly killed me, but granted me life. In the moment where I was mere seconds before utter emotional disaster, I would remind myself of everything and everyone.
The memories, the laughter, the joy that was created by my deeds.
The burning flame would combust, allowing me to cross over the barrier. Wielding more life than I could positively lose.
The gods could come down and smite me, and I wouldn’t mind. For I was doing what they and the world refuse to do. My retaliation was a statement to what I believe was righteous in this world and my soul finds purpose within. The flames of hope that were lingering in my heart became clearer as the days flew by. As I took on more and gained more strength.
This flame was never ire but determination. A powerful tool capable of altering realities. An eraser of hardships and a creator of dreams. Forged via our struggles and wielded to combat them. An eternal dance that is necessary to the survival of our species and ideals.
Dance with the flame, let it consume you. As the heat rises and the pressure increases, you will reconstruct to withstand the heat. A form of metal. Be selfish within yourself and yearn for more. More than gold or silver. As the world collides upon you, let pressure construct you into a diamond.
I knew that upon arriving at this University, I would have to reconstruct myself. Yet, It seems that I was more at a loss than I would have hoped. Lessons that define my existence seem so hazy and lost. Television static to the programming that is my life.
In these moments of struggle, I think to myself: Why am I doing this for? The intricate people at Rough Cut have once again answered my questions.
I live for the people. Many of us would go to war to fight for freedom, for their countries and families. I go to war as a way to help people. Let it be war within the self or the world. I will not rest if I feel the unrest of the people. Its my selfish need, to understand what others fail to do. To hear when people are unheard. To stay when everyone leaves.
They may never know the impact they have had on me that night, but their involvement has assisted me in finding another puzzle piece to the scattered picture that is my mind. A reminder of who I am.
My only hope is that I can reconstruct fast enough. That the numerous lessons yet silent are into effect quicker than before. In a sense, I know they will. However, no flowers can grow with the assistance of water.
Eventually, my conversation with Pvt.Allie was cut short. Srg.Will emerge with the simple question of my banking information. The original plan was to split the tips equally among everyone as a form of compensation. It seems that my grandeur efforts had granted me an impressive $3.50.
Once again, I rejected their offers. I wasn’t interested in money, besides, a heftier reward manifested in the form of time.
After sharing a prezlet I had hidden, we rebranded ourselves as civilians. Waving goodbye to Mary as a sign of appreciation and respect. Our combined efforts award us with a group picture at the football.
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