Waffles, Chips & Other Robbery Necessities

Ethan tapped the list against the steering wheel.

“Gloves. Tape. Zip ties. In and out, Lena. Two minutes.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“And you came out with a slushie.”

“It was hot.”

He stared.

“Two minutes.”

The servo glowed ahead. Fluorescent. Unbothered.

“Alright.” He pocketed the list. “You grab supplies. I’ll… socialise.”

“Please don’t say it like that.”

The bell chimed as we entered.

“Hey,” Ethan said, leaning on the counter. “Random question—are waffles making a comeback, or am I just ahead of the curve?”

The cashier blinked. Vest over hoodie. Deadpan.

“…you mean trend, right?”

“Yeah. Trend.”

The stare hit a second later.

Right. The Gen Z stare.

I turned into the aisle before I could watch him recover.

Gloves. Bottom shelf. Easy.

Then… chips.

Salt and vinegar.

Elite.

I grabbed one. Then barbecue.

For later. Obviously.

Focus.

Duct tape. Check.

“Waffles have structure,” Ethan continued. “Pancakes? Low-key unstable.”

“They’re just pancakes.”

I bit back a laugh. Found zip ties.

Gloves. Tape. Zip ties. Chips.

Perfect.

“Hey,” the cashier said.

Not to Ethan.

To me.

The distance between the register and the aisle stretched out at least a few meters, yet the distinct voice of the employee felt much too close.

And very much directed at me.

“Hey man, we were in the middle of a discussion: pancakes, waffles, and like… French toast. Y’know, the trifecta of breakfast menu items,” Ethan’s boisterous voice resounded. As he rambled on, I leaned into the aisle. Perhaps being hidden behind the shelves could ease how desperate his diversion sounded.

At the register, the employee let out a half huff with blank eyes. In return, Ethan stood tall with a bright smile in his most practiced unassuming pose; that “boyish charm” Ethan always had.

The air felt dense, stretching out longer than the expected pause in a conversation.

Gloves. Check. Tape. Check. Zip ties. Check.

The bag of red barbecue chips crinkled as I shifted my vest, like a tell.

“Is your friend over there done yet?” the employee asked—a bland but curious statement.

“There’s no rush, we’re just getting all the things we need. Take your time, Lena,” Ethan replied easily.

Yes, way to make us look even more suspicious!

The aisle of chips and road trip snacks stretched outwards as I circled back towards the store’s front. Ethan’s self-made conversation began to kick up again, even as the employee seemed unamused.

A second quick peek showed Ethan still running his mouth about some otherworldly topic. Though the employee looked less amused and more resigned by the minute.

The magic of a partner in crime like Ethan was his ability to continuously and effortlessly spew nonsense by the second.

If only he could wrap it up so we could leave…

The store’s door opened with a gentle jingle as a group of teenagers walked in.

I looked up—

—and froze.

Same hoodies.

Same height.

Same—

Balaclavas.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Ethan clocked it instantly.

Didn’t flinch.

“—and that’s why waffles outperform pancakes under pressure,” he finished smoothly.

“Everyone chill,” one of them said. “Phones down.”

Right.

So.

We were being robbed.

While robbing.

Incredible. Love that for us.

I adjusted the bag.

Gloves. Tape. Zip ties.

And chips.

Because I make great decisions.

This was supposed to be the pregame.

Step one: don’t get arrested.

Step two: leave.

Step three: reconsider chips.

“Register,” another said.

The cashier sighed.

A masked guy vaulted the counter. Drawer open. Cash out.

Clean.

Efficient.

Annoyingly, I was impressed.

We looked like a school project.

Ethan leaned in.

“Plan B.”

“Please say it’s leaving.”

“Eventually.”

I hate that word.

“So,” Ethan said, because silence would kill him, “you guys feel like a pancake operation—flat, circular—”

“Shut up.”

“Copy that.” He gave a flimsy two-fingered salute.

I nudged him.

Door. Now.

We moved. Side-stepping. Casual.

The bell chimed.

Cold air.

Freedom.

“Hey—!”

We ran.

Because this?

This wasn’t even in the plan.

And we were already late for the real robbery.

The soft jingle of the store door was barely heard as I slammed the door. We ran to our old convertible parked nearby.

The car door had just closed before Ethan slammed on the gas, peeling out of the parking lot. Something sharp bounced off the back of the trunk as we turned away. We left the scene like amateurs, or for lack of a better word—

“God, you’re such a scaredy-cat,” I joked.

“Lena, did you hear that before? Those hooligans better not have made a dent on my baby with whatever they threw,” Ethan complained.

True irony.

And so the scenery passed.

Ethan didn’t need any directions to our next destination. In this old town, too familiar and boring, nothing ever happened.

Well, nothing ever usually happens…

“You got everything we needed, right?” Ethan asked, making a left turn to merge onto the expressway from the local street.

“Of course, and…” I dangled our potato chips.

“Wow, priorities,” Ethan commented with a laugh. It seemed better to enjoy the chips now than save them for later, considering one could never be too sure what would happen next.

“Ready to rob the bank?” Ethan asked conversationally.

“Really? We barely got through the convenience store and you want to rob this town’s only bank?”

“We already have the supplies. Better late than never. Besides, we made a deal.” His last words: a reminder of a shared responsibility.

I took in a deep breath as I ripped open the chip bag.

“You’re right, we promised to get them 25,000 cash.”

“And we’re a little short on that.”

“Let’s make a quick withdrawal then,” I answered.

Ethan smiled and stepped harder on the gas.

The crack of the salted chip on my tongue echoed like a gunshot.