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Jesus’ Grandson’s Banana Split

By Hannah Reynoso


This is dedicated to my rose-gold angel in disguise who graciously swooped down from the heavens and wrapped me safely in his loving arms during my hour of need.

Illustration by Megan Adams

Illustration by Megan Adams

As I prepare to relive this story in excruciating detail, I'd like you to imagine a faulty frozen yogurt machine violently shrieking in your left ear so as to more accurately place yourself in the midst of my great pandemonium. Once your eardrums are just about numb to the screeching and tears are silently streaming down your face, feel free to read on.

So there I was, manning the register when in walked a herd of seven wild banshees and their frazzled mother. The bedraggled children possessed an odor to which I have no comparison. As they began to construct their yogurts, some middle aged, suburban moms and another family decided to join the party as well (I should probably add that this place hardly gets customers so three fairly large groups of people were more than enough to send me over the edge). Much to my dismay, three machines conveniently ran out of yogurt at the exact same time. The middle aged moms, of course, decided that the only flavors they would consider were the ones that had just depleted a few seconds prior.

I politely agreed to fill the empty machines when Jesus Christ, in all of his benevolence, walked over to the register and remorsefully asked if his grandson could have a banana split. The seemingly divine twinkle in his eye and fairly long beard made him so approachable, I couldn’t help but smile warmly at his very being. He included that I seemed to be quite frazzled, and I should take my time and just bring it out whenever I am able. His display of tenderness was just the confidence boost I needed to proceed with my shift instead of hurling myself out of the window (It’s a one story building so jumping wouldn’t really do me any good, but still). I rushed back to fill the machines and find some bananas for Jesus’ grandson’s banana split when I accidentally forgot to open the swinging back door and ran smack into the plexiglass.

I’m not going to lie, I cried a little. However, I promptly composed myself in time to fill the machines and begin crafting the banana split.

After the split was nearly complete and the middle-aged moms were all checked out, I began to deliver the concoction to Jesus Christ. Unfortunately, before I could place the final cherry upon the top of the ice cream swirl, I was unpleasantly surprised to find all five of the Suburban moms angrily making their way back to the register with such conviction that I couldn’t help but feel personally attacked.

“Your chocolate yogurt is sour,” one of the moms flatly declared. Almost positive the yogurt was not sour (sometimes chocolate just tastes weird), I marched right over to the machine to taste the supposedly rotten mess.

Sure enough, Susan was right. The yogurt had gone bad.

“I can’t believe you were going to serve this,” said Karen, as if I was the one who spoiled the yogurt just to spite them.

I felt shamelessly un-guilty about what I had done as I turned the machine off and pulled the handles out from the metal plate so nobody else could get poisoned and probably die. I peered over my shoulder to find a glistening ray of sunshine beaming down upon Christ, his rosy cheeks smiling at me with pride.

Everything was going swimmingly (given the circumstances) until the handle refused to come out of the socket. I began to pull and pull until the cows came home (this is the first and last time I’ll ever use that expression) when the machine began oozing large sheets of rancid yogurt. Susan and company were still watching, ready to pounce on my every flaw. With much regretted hesitation, I gathered the spilled yogurt into my hands and attempted to find the source of the problem.

Urethra! (I am absolutely the only one who will laugh at what I just said). The yogurt was escaping because a crucial handle at the bottom of the machine wasn’t entirely secured. I violently began to crank the bolt to the right (righty tighty, lefty loosey) until the handle was sufficiently fastened and the yogurt stopped dripping. Feeling quite smug for handling the issue with so much grace, I confidently strutted back to the register to deal with Susan, Karen, and the rest of the gang. I could still see Jesus’ looks of sympathy willing me to proceed. His gentleness, yet again, gave me the fortitude to handle what was yet to come.

“Well?” said the impatient Susan.

In that moment, I had absolutely no idea how to proceed. I did not possess the capability of personally extracting the yogurt from their bodies, and I couldn’t un-spoil what had already gone bad, so I went with the third best option: coupons.

Each of the mothers gracefully accepted my four ounces free voucher except for Susan who decided to be difficult yet again. Thank you, Susan.

“Only four ounces?” she scoffed. “I paid so much money for my yogurt and how dare you think that it’s okay to…” she continued to speak, but I couldn’t help but imagine myself somewhere far away in the arms of Ansel Elgort. I absentmindedly reached for two additional coupons and placed them directly in Susan’s outstretched palm. Each member of the Suburban gang cast me one final glance of disgust as they each fled the store, never to be seen again. (Actually, they’ll probably choose my very next shift to return with their coupons. Awesome.).

The only remaining trace of the chaos was the shrieking yogurt machine that, surprisingly, had not yet ceased.

I took a deep breath as I finally got around to delivering the banana split to Jesus’ grandson.

“Nice work, kiddo.” he said to me with a wink. His rose gold pegasus promptly descended from the heavens to pick him up and carry him away as his earthly duties were finally complete.

May you all proceed similarly to Jesus in the midst of your neighbors’ Susans and Karens. Amen.


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