True Stories

Drink & Drugs Ruined
My Faith in Waffles

It is said that the Devil comes in many guises. When I met him one hot summer night, he was dressed in the orange jumpsuit worn by employees of the Mississippi Highway Department.

I should have suspected that something was amiss. Freeway rest areas don't usually have night attendants, but there was 'Bill' sitting on an upturned cleaning bucket and waving a cheery greeting. It soon became clear that 'Bill' was dispensing more than just free road maps.

He and his brethren manned the service areas on the Chemical Highway – supplying fuel for the truckers, not the trucks. They sold the potent elixir that kept the nation's freight moving through the night, but it was never meant for college boys driving underpowered Fords. It was my sinful pride that made me accept his pernicious offering. I had miles to go and could not sleep.

It wasn't long before I realized that Trouble was riding shotgun with me. My vision blurred and the freeway became a pulsating black tunnel. Then I saw what I thought was the sign of my salvation, each letter framed in a bright yellow square against the night sky: WAFFLE HOUSE.

Surely a piping hot waffle covered with sweet syrup would counteract the evil effects of Bill's chemistry. And it did – but only as far as the Alabama state line. As the blackness returned, another Waffle House miraculously hove into view. Saved again.

That second waffle got me across Alabama, but as I entered Georgia I began to feel a wobbling sensation that was clearly not coming from the car.

But soon another Waffle House sign beckoned me towards the blessed bosom of griddle delights. Yet I was beyond redemption.

The wobbling quickly returned, now coupled with a powerful new sensation brought on by the football-sized lump of partially digested dough rolling around in my belly. I had just begun to ponder the merits of reverse peristalsis when everything went black.

Many people who have had near-death experiences report seeing a white light. I now know what that light is. It comes from the headlights of a truck loaded with chickens bearing down on you at high speed.

The instant between knowing I was going to die and knowing I was going to live was filled with the soft whisper of chicken feathers floating into my car window from the swerving truck.

Even if I had died and gone to join 'Bill' in the down-under, I couldn't have blamed that truck driver. How was he to know that a waffle-stuffed fool would carefully park on a freeway exit ramp in the middle of the night, turn off his lights, and pass out?

Shocked into wakefulness by adrenaline and the aroma of chicken manure, I got back on the road. The very next exit was home to a Waffle House. Was it just a bitter irony or was it Old Scratch mocking me?

I didn't know. I only knew that from that day forward I would follow a different path to short-order salvation, and I quietly mourned the loss of my faith in the waffle's holy golden grid.

Damn you, 'Bill'. Damn you to hell.