The Coffee Savorerby Mike Krath
Denise, a ditsy, young blonde secretary, didn't care much for the environment. That's why she didn't fret if she used a non-biodegradable white Styrofoam cup to drink her coffee from. She figured that one day the planet would dissolve due to intense heat - maybe a visit from the sun or something like that - dissolve, melt away like the sugar in her coffee. Or cream. Or sugar and cream if she was in the mood for it, or had a lot of work to do, and she needed something to keep her mind off the tedium of typing paper after paper. This morning, Mr. Withers, her slave-driving boss with the permanent frown, had given her an awful lot of typing to do, so this morning it was cream and sugar in her coffee.
She brought the coffee back to her desk and sat down. She noticed a yellow sticky on one of the papers. The yellow sticky had been on her desk all morning, but she hadn’t noticed it until now. She hadn’t noticed it because the caffeine from her first three cups of morning coffee hadn’t kicked in.
The yellow sticky read, “Type this first.” She looked at the paper. The content was gibberish – something about bringing about the immediate death of all mankind and such. She frowned. How was this work related? But Mr. Withers wanted it typed, so type it she would.
But first to savor the coffee in her white Styrofoam cup.
Mr. Withers opened his office door and glared at Denise sipping her morning coffee. He hated her laziness. He hated it with all his heart. He hated it as he hated everything in life. He had been severely abused as a child. Everything was bad. Everything was meaningless. A farce. A lie. Denise was part of this lie. Her lazy insolence was a part of the overall illusion that life was worth living. But it wasn't! Mr. Withers knew this, but Denise didn't. Oh, how he hated her for not knowing this. She should know it, but she didn't. He despised her. He wished her dead on the spot and everything else that moved and breathed on the face of the earth.
“Denise?” he said. “Have you finished typing that paper with the yellow sticky?”
“I'm right on it,” she said, but she wasn't.
And Mr. Withers knew this, but he didn't say anything to the contrary. “That's good,” he said. “Please bring it into my office as soon as you are finished.”
“Yes, Mr. Withers.”
Mr. Withers closed his door and smiled. Everything was going according to his little plan. The ancient prophecy would soon be fulfilled. Wasn't Denise employed by him? Wasn't she his typist? Wasn't she marked from ancient times to bring about the destruction of the world and usher in a new order? The old Asian assured him she was - the same old Asian that he met in a dark alley behind the bar where the drunk told him he would be- the same old Asian that sold him the ancient spell for a hefty sum of money before knocking him unconscious.
“Denise?” he said. “Have you finished typing that paper with the yellow sticky?”
“I'm right on it,” she said.
“That's good,” he said. “Please bring it into my office as soon as you are finished.”
“Yes, Mr. Withers.”
Mr. Withers closed his door.
Denise watched him leave, and then took the paper with the yellow sticky and stuck the paper in the typewriter, but not before removing the yellow sticky. She put her hands on the keyboard and typed the first word of the spell, “To.” She stopped. She took a sip of coffee. She typed the second word, “bring.” She stopped. She looked up at the office clock. It was five minutes to twelve.
Mr. Withers did a little jig in his office. La, la, la. The end was almost near. Soon he’d be rid of the memories of his miserable childhood. Soon he’d be rid of the planet that reminded him of his wretched past. He was so happy. Nothing could spoil his day. Nothing!
He looked out his office door.
Denise was not at her desk.
“Denise?”
Denise carefully unwrapped the chocolate bar she had brought from home. She didn’t care about the calories. She was young. Her metabolism was in full gear.
Mr. Withers popped his head into the break room. “Denise, did you finish that paper, yet?”
“I’ll bring it to you right after lunch,” Denise said, chocolate smeared all over her juicy red lips.
“Fine. That’ll be fine,” Mr. Withers said.
He went back to desk and waited. And waited. And waited. One o’clock. No Denise. Two o’clock. No Denise. “Oh, what’s with this woman?” He got up and opened the door. Dennis was on the phone gabbing. He closed the door. He opened the door. Denise was twiddling some papers on her desk. He closed the door. He opened the door. Denise had gone to the bathroom – for the umpteenth time! And it wasn’t surprising seeing the myriads upon myriads of white non-biodegradable Styrofoam cups littering her desktop. He closed the door. He opened the door. Denise was staring at the typewriter. She didn’t move.
“Denise?”
“Mr. Withers,” she said. “There’s no coffee in the break room.”
Mr. Withers walked over to her desk. He looked at the paper in her typewriter. The ancient spell had been typed except for the last sentence. “Denise, you’re almost done. Please finish this and bring it to my office.”
“I need coffee, sir. I can’t think.”
“It won’t take you long.”
“My head hurts.”
Mr. Withers looked up at the office clock. It was 4:10 PM. The Winter Solstice was at 4:56 PM.
“It’ll just be a few minutes. I’ll let you go home early. I let everyone else go home early for the holidays. You can go home early, too, if you complete this assignment.”
“Coffee.”
“Please?”
Denise slumped in her chair
“Fine! Very well. I’ll run to the corner store and buy some coffee. Finish that paper. I want it in my office in half an hour.”
Denise didn’t respond.
Mr. Withers ran to the store to the coffee section. His finger went up and down the well-known brands. “French roast, Italian roast, Brazilian roast, coarse ground, medium ground, regular, drip, hazelnut, vanilla… oh, I hate that woman!”
A hand touched his shoulder. He turned and met the anguished face of the old Asian.
“What are you doing?” the old Asian asked, inflection rising on every word.
“You!” Mr. Withers said. “Why I ought to…”
“Spell, Mr. Withers. What about spell?”
“You knocked me out.”
“One of disciples of new order did, Mr. Withers. It was necessary. You were not going to take spell. New order would not come until your secretary typed spell. Where’s spell? Is your secretary typing it?”
“She’s trying.”
“She must type it before Winter Solstice.”
“Yes, I know,” said Mr. Withers. “But I need to buy some coffee first. She must have coffee or she’ll never finish.”
“Forget coffee! Winter Solstice in fifteen minutes!”
“She needs coffee!”
“Here!” the old Asian grabbed an off-brand off the shelf and handed it to Mr. Withers.
Mr. Withers took it in disgust. “An off-brand?”
“No time, Mr. Withers. Let’s go.”
“This isn’t good coffee.”
“Mr. Withers!”
“Fine. Let me pay for it.”
“Winter Solstice won’t wait for slow line at checkout. Must go, now.”
“But the coffee.”
The old Asian snatched the coffee from Mr. Wither’s hands and ran out of the store. Mr. Withers followed.
“Hey! You got to pay for that!” the cashier said.
“Hurry,” said the old Asian.
“You stole that coffee,” Mr. Withers said.
“It doesn’t matter. New order must arrive.”
“How are you going to explain your shoplifting to the new order?”
“Go down one rung in social status, who cares. Must get new order here in fourteen minutes.”
The two men ran into Mr. Wither’s office building and rode the elevator up to the fifth floor, but the momentary delay between the elevator’s high and low speed took an unusually long time.
“What’s wrong with elevator?” the old Asian cried.
“Don’t panic,” Mr. Withers said. “We have thirteen minutes.”
“Winter Solstice almost here!”
“Don’t worry.”
“If Winter Solstice comes and goes must wait…”
“Another year, yes, I’m aware of it,” Mr. Withers said.
“Another year? Another thousand years,” the old Asian said.
“What?” Mr. Withers sputtered. “You said prophecy must wait for new secretary, not wait for new secretary after a thousand years.”
“Don’t have to explain everything. Didn’t think it take long to have spell typed.”
“No, no, no!” Mr. Withers said and jumped up and down. He shouted at the elevator, “Hurry! Oh, please hurry!”
The elevator’s doors creaked opened, and the two men dashed to the break room, falling over each other.
“Where’s coffee pot?” the old Asian said.
“Here!” Mr. Withers said, taking it out of the sink.
“I’ll pour water in pot, you open coffee can.”
“Yes, yes! Oh, where’s the can opener?”
“What? Not accelerated brewer?”
“Five minutes. It’ll only take five minutes. Where’s that can opener?”
“Look! Leftover coffee in white Styrofoam cup with lipstick in trashcan. That’ll do. Heat up in microwave. Go to secretary. I’ll bring coffee.”
“Yes, yes.” Mr. Withers ran to Denise. She was making gurgling noises. “Denise, have you finished typing that spell?” He looked at the paper. “Yes! Yes, you have…no, wait a minute; you’re missing the last two words. You need to type the last two words of the spell, Denise. Hurry! Type the last two words of the spell! Denise!”
He looked at the office clock. It was 4:46 PM.
“Denise!”
“Here coffee! Coffee made!” the old Asian said, hurrying towards them.
The stairwell door slammed open.
“That’s him! That’s the man who stole the coffee!” the cashier from the general store said to the two cops with him.
“Drop that coffee, mister,” one the cops said.
“Must get coffee to lady.”
“We said…” the second cop pulled out his baton and smacked the old Asian across his back, “drop that coffee!”
“Garrrrr!” the old Asian said and slumped to the floor. He struggled to hold up the coffee.
Mr. Withers ran over and grabbed the coffee from him.
“That’s him! That’s the other man,” the cashier said.
“Back away, mister. Put your hands up.”
Mr. Withers ran to Denise’s desk.
“Halt, mister!” the first cop said.
The second cop threw his baton at Mr. Withers and struck him in the head.
“Argh!” Mr. Withers said and stumbled towards Denise, blood gushing down his neck.
Denise jumped to her feet. “Eeee!”
Type…last…two words…” Mr. Withers groaned and fell on top of Denise’s typewriter.
“Eeee!” Denise screamed. “Eeee!”
“Words…”
“Eeee!”
Mr. Withers’ dazed eyes looked at the office clock. It was 4:56 PM.
“No!”
The white Styrofoam cup with lipstick dropped to the floor and bowed to its savorer.
Winter had begun.