Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

Mr. Coffee, Meet Mr. Fist

By Bob Wire, 11-22-09

	When you see me drinking from this cup, you don't want to start an argument. Got that? Yeah, that's what I thought.

I have a phrase I’ve used in my professional life that’s followed me my entire career. Anyone who’s worked with me knows the phrase, as I’ve invoked it early and often everywhere I’ve worked: NWBC. No Work Before Coffee. Bosses and underlings alike have come at me with a question or problem shortly after I’ve arrived at the workplace, only to be shown the palm of my hand, and be told, “NWBC.” If pressed, I have always shown them why it’s unwise to expect anything lucid or productive (or even civil) before I’ve had my morning cup. I won’t go into detail here, but let’s just say it’s a good thing I work alone. And I’ve never been convicted of assault.

For most of us functioning adults, we just can’t start the day without that steaming mug of joe. It’s not just the caffeine, but it’s also the ritual, the comfort of the warm cup between the hands, the jolt of heat and aromatic bitterness with every sip. There’s also the communal aspect, taking a little time between work crises to slurp a little mud with your coworkers and talk about who got beat up and/or lucky over the weekend.

So when there’s no coffee, there’s no life. There’s no light. There’s no liftoff. I’ve run out of coffee before, but there’s always been some backup plan, some forgotten stash, some workable alternative. Run out of filters? Use a paper towel. Sugar’s gone? Honey will do in a pinch. Last time I ran out of coffee beans, I rooted through the camping box until I found a packet of instant. The kids were asking their mother why daddy was swearing at the camping box.

Last Saturday, though, was a worst-case scenario. I’d hosted a poker game the night before, and Barb was out of town. I had to get up early with the kids, and I needed that java more than usual. I ground the beans, filled the Mr. Coffee with water, and pressed the GO button. I headed for the shower, knowing a fresh cup would be waiting for me by the time I dried off.

But when I padded into the kitchen after washing off the stink of my poker defeat, Mr. Coffee had Mr. Completely. There was no coffee. I pushed the BREW button with increasing fury and despair, and it soon became clear that this three-year-old contraption was dead. I checked the cupboard. No instant. I went to the garage and rooted through the camping box. No dice. Only hot chocolate and tea, and a half-empty can of Vienna sausages. (They tasted like they might have gone bad.)

I went back upstairs to the Mr. Coffee, which is some fancy model that was designed to look like someone’s idea of the future in 1982. In three years, I’ve replace the carafe four times because it breaks if you so much as fill it with hard water. It’s got an LED analog clock, auto shut off, and all sorts of bells and whistles. It beeps when the coffee is ready. It beeps again when it shuts off. It filters the water. But now it wasn’t doing any of those things. It was just depriving me of my morning cup of jamoke. I punched Mr. Coffee right between the eyes, cracking the housing.

“Kids, get your coats. We’re going to the store.” Rusty and Speaker had watched my increasing panic over the coffee crisis, and were smart enough to go along without argument. “NWBC,” I heard Rusty whisper to his sister.

We drove to Albertson’s, the closest place I could score a triple latte before I continued my quest for a new coffeemaker. “I’ll tell you what,” I said as we pulled into the parking lot. “I am DONE with Mr. Coffee. That cheap piece of crap doesn’t deserve the name. Mr. Coffee is an a-hole.” The kids chuckled in the backseat.

We entered the store and I went straight to the coffee bar. As I was looking up at the menu board to see what they call a Large here, the woman behind the counter said, “Just so you know, our espresso machine is broken.”

I looked at her and my eyes must have signaled impending homicide because she quickly added, “But we have plenty of drip coffee!” Placated, I bought a Grande drip coffee. Then we walked through the appliance aisle, where they offered three different models of Mr. Coffee. “Fuck Mr. Coffee,” I said, sipping my hot joe. The kids repeated my exclamation as we marched out of the store.

I’d taken a few minutes to eyeball the ads in the Sunday paper before we left the house, and I decided to pull the trigger on a very nice KitchenAid model that was on sale at Sears. I’ve gone through a parade of $30 coffeemakers over the years, and I figured that I’d bite the bullet and spring a hundred bucks for this deluxe model that comes with a lifetime warranty. Hell, I thought, after four or five years, it will have paid for itself. Clinging to this desperate logic and my near-empty Grande cup, I wheeled into the Sears parking lot, which was strangely empty. We drove slowly by the front doors.

“They’re closed,” said Rusty, nose pressed up against his window.

“They don’t open ‘til 11:00,” said Speaker, reading the store hours on the door. I looked at my watch. 10:05. I needed a coffeemaker NOW. I wanted desperately to just go home, hook up a new machine, brew a pot, and read the Sunday paper while watching some football. Is that too much to ask? Yes, said Sears.

So we drove to Shopko, which was open. Ha! I’d already had enough of this turd hunt, and the kids were anxious to get back home so they could continue screwing off. We made our way through the store to the home appliance department. There was a decent variety of coffeemakers, but nothing like that glorious KitchenAid I’d seen in the Sears circular. There was a basic Mr. Coffee, on sale for half price: $19.99. “Screw it,” I sighed, and I grabbed the box. As we walked toward the cashier, Rusty grabbed my sleeve.

“But what about ‘fuck Mr. Coffee?’” he said.

I pulled my sleeve free of his grip. “NWBC, sir. NWBC.”

[Feel free to forward this column to your caffeinated friends. Bookmark NewWest.net/BobWire for your daily jolt.]

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By Bob Wire, 11-22-09 | comments (27) | email story | print story