The Coffee Maker

               Never in a million years did I think this job would be so much. But hell, I never thought this would be the only job I’d be able to find in a million either. Everyday it’s the same drab routine. “Bring me a cup please, Kathy.” “Okay” is always my reply. I dare not say Ma’am to a woman one-third my age. What do they see in this stuff any way? Brown turd beans that change the color of water once dissolved. And it becomes a cup of roasted-ness.  Blah! So boring, I think. And it’s too darn hot anyway! Rip after rip. Cup after cup, they ask. Can I have two sugars? Cream please. I’ll have vanilla and hazelnut syrup. They all see this masterpiece of sweet indulgences and all I see is a cup full of dumping materials. They are all wired up mechanically walking around—all crazy. In a few hours, they are all back to normal. And it starts all over: here they go asking, “Bring me a cup please honey.” If they only knew coffee makes your breath sink, teeth discolored, and oh I heard on CNN that it causes cancer. Yep, it causes tongue cancer I think they said. My first day on the job they had someone train me. Can you believe that? They actually sent someone to show me how to make the perfect cup of nonsense? “Yes, Mr. Gates likes his coffee one way—three fourths full, one sugar-black with the stirrer in the same direction as the handle.” WHAT?!? How foolish it sounded. Then my trainer walks me around the coffee room like some hot rod show room to show me brands of coffee, creamer, and sugar plus the cups and stirrers. Yes, the stirrers. He schools me on who gets the V-Tech mug and the “somebody in East Providence” loves me cup. The trainer professed, “This is coffee-o-logy 101, but pretty soon you will need 102 and 103 all the way through 528. I took a deep breath and shook my head. “What has this world come to,” I thought. I am a coffee maker. Afterwards, the proud trainer escorts me to human resources. The woman there hands me one sheet of paper that reads, “Contract”. She whistles out loudly, “This contract is contingent upon your signature.” I take the contract already done with the place. I snatch the pen off the table and read, Salary $63,000. I take a double look and sign quickly. I will be the best damn coffee maker there is. “Bring me a cup please.” I reply, “Yes, ma’am.