He stood beside me for a moment, studying the machine. At first I though I might be in his way, but I realized the brooding calm of an older person trying to figure something out before he began using it. This is a practice which I have only recently adopted. Maybe it is because I am nearing, if not in, middle age and the capacity of my internal storage is nearing full. Or maybe I realize that idont need to retain everything and so an unfamiliar coffee maker is something of a mystery every time I approach it. I do, however, count on it tone there and be functional.
The thought of not knowing where my morning cup can be found is enough to send me into a panic. Allow me to repeat this, because I really do mean it. The thought of not knowing where my morning cup can be found is enough to send me into a panic. I’m not sure I would be able to go to sleep without a plan for morning caffination. A keen diagnostician might call this addiction. I have no basis for disagreement,nor do I feel compelled to alter my behavior.
Lacking this willingness, however, I am condemned to a certain amount of suffering. When we realized that the machine was not dispensing regular coffee, the older man and I exchanged dismay at the situation. “I thought it always worked,” he said. “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN IT’S NOT WORKING!?!” I wanted to yell. “WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO IN THE MORNING!?!” I refrained from screaming. This is the sort of behavior that gives addicts a bad name, and I did not want to be responsible for sullying my fellows’ reputation any further than it already has been. You can be sure, however, that I will be checking the machine regularly before bedtime to make sure the situation is rectified.