There are few
reasons why somebody would take their coffee black. Apart from the
obvious, that they are a soulless being that is devoid of the pinch
of general goodness that God so graciously sprinkled on top after he
was done with us, one really has to wonder why a person would prefer
to take on the day with a cup o' bitterness, rather than be
pleasantly born into the morning with cream and sugar. Or at least,
that's what pleasant people wonder.
Bitter people often
wonder the opposite, and generally have a deeper disdain for the
opposing side, because, as previously mentioned, they're bitter. They
see their black coffee as the gasoline that fuels their malicious
attitudes, because they're damn well going to be awake enough to
spread it around.
But, as an ever
present exception to the rule, there are the ones who just don't
care. The ones who order a cup of coffee in a fashion that lets the
waitress know that she can do whatever the hell she wants with it,
and it will probably be enjoyed. Most would call this person
apathetic. I usually call him Ben.
Ben thanked the
waitress as his mystery drink was placed in front of him, and I did
the same as my thoroughly creamed and sugared coffee was placed by
me. Spencer, who was sitting across from me and next to Ben, sat
silently as he received his black coffee. I looked at him, smiled,
and sipped my pleasantly altered drink. After putting the mug down, I
looked out the window to our other friend, Cory, a tall lanky boy who
was outside by the car in the freezing New Hampshire winter cold in a
black T shirt. He was talking/yelling on the phone with his
girlfriend.
“What do you
think they're talking about?” I asked, tearing another sugar packet
open.
“I don't know,
probably something crazy.” Ben took a whiff of his mug. “Ooh,
vanilla!” Ben was a stout red haired boy, with a demeanor not
unlike my own. He just seems to be unshakable. He can roll off a
worry with a shrug of his shoulders, and make a problem seem
insignificant with a “Meh”. He's almost admirable that way, and
he seems to be the one in our quartet that keeps us mellow. Or at the
very least, sane. I looked out the window again, but Cory wasn't
there anymore. He must have started walking in.
Spencer rolled his
eyes as he raised his coffee to his mouth, and promptly spit it out
as it burnt his tongue. “Son of a bitch!”
Ben and I smiled as
we blew into our drinks to cool them off. While Spencer is a man who
is not exactly what I would call cheery, I sometimes feel like I
judge him too harshly. Out of the four of us, he's the one who had to
grow up the fastest. Between an actual job, an actual apartment and,
well, an actual life, I can't really blame him for being a little
moody. To be honest, I sometimes wonder if we're holding him back at
all, from actually taking the final step into adulthood. But on the
other hand, maybe that's what he needs. A reminder that there's more
to life than just trudging through the work week.
“Hey.” Cory
looked bewildered as he took a seat next to me. We nodded back at
him, and wondered which one of us was going to ask what he was
talking about. But, of course, he noticed. “I need coffee first.”
The waitress came over to take his order. “Black, please.” I gave
a look at Ben, and he shrugged as if it might be nothing. “Well,
this day sucks.”
I shot another look
at Ben. He gave me another shrug. Apathetic wad.
Spencer was the
brave one. “What happened?”
“I need coffee
first.” Cory repeated. We sat there in silence until the waitress
came back with Cory's drink. “Sugar packets.” He held out his
hand towards me. I picked up two and placed them in his palm. He
looked at his hand, and looked back at me. “Sugar packets.”
“Sorry.” This
time I took a handful and gave them to him. Any friend of Cory learns
early on in the relationship a set of rules. The first one: Never
comment on the way he eats or drinks. And you'll be tempted. But
don't. I remember back in high school when we were sitting at a lunch
table, and a new girl asked about the towering pile of mozzarella
cheese on his tray. Before the three of us could warn her to stop,
Cory was verbally ripping that poor girl to shreds, hitting every
mental pressure point he could find, from slutty makeup to anorexia.
She left the table crying.
Now Cory isn't a
mean person. Actually, that's not true. He's a very mean person. But
he's a good person. He's a mean, good person... Screw it. Cory is
complicated. To call him a human being is a bit of a stretch. He's a
medical anomaly, for more than one reason, and was institutionalized
twice in elementary school. I'm not going to give his life story or
anything, but what I've come to accept, is that he's completely
justified to be a dick once in a while.
However, when he
goes a bit too far, which is pretty often, a smack to the back of his
head has almost become instinctual to me, sometimes starting before
he even finishes the sentence. At times I feel abusive, but I think
it's just my way of trying to better him. However that's probably
going to blow up in my face around the time his fist does.
Cory didn't start
talking until the sixth packet emptied into his cup. “I think I
just got mugged.”
Ben's eyes widened,
and Spencer almost spat out his swig of coffee. I was, as I often am,
confused.
“You what?” I
asked with good reason, as people who get mugged are usually pretty
sure about it, and also don't get coffee right after.
“Mhmm,” Cory
hummed pre-sip. As he swallowed, he grimaced. “More sugar.” I
gave a couple more packets to him, still confused, but quiet about it
this time.
“What do you
mean, you got mugged?” Spencer asked after finally succeeding on
swallowing the coffee that almost escaped a few seconds ago.
“I mean a man
with a knife walked up to me while I was on the phone, and told me to
give him my wallet. I got mugged. Kind of.”
“Kind of? What
the hell does that mean?” Ben asked, noticeably not shrugging
anymore.
“Well, my
girlfriend and I were fighting, so I was already kind of pissed off.
So...” He pointed out the window to where he was standing before.
We all looked out in disbelief as a homeless looking man was laying
on the ground motionless. My first thought led to one of my
instinctual head smacks.
“Did you kill
that guy?!”
“Ow! What? No! Of
course I didn't kill him. I just sort of... kicked his ass...”
“WHAT?! He had a
knife!”
“Yeah...
come to think of it, I think he nicked me...” Cory rolled up his
right t-shirt sleeve to reveal a relatively deep cut on his upper
arm. Spencer was already on the phone with the emergency service. Ben
was laughing.
“Did
you take HIS money while you were at it?”
Cory
smiled as he put pressure on his wound with some napkins. “No, but
don't think I fail to see the irony in that.”
A
part of me was wondering if that was actually irony, because every
time I try to say that something's ironic, there's always some person
there to say it isn't. I've given up on trying altogether. But my
friend next to me was somewhat injured, kinda, so I couldn't waste my
time with grammatical antics. I had to yell at him.
“Cory,
you realize that a few minutes ago, you could have died, right? What
if instead of the arm, he stabbed you in the heart? Or the stomach?
Or the head?”
“The
head?”
“I
don't know! It's possible!”
“Okay...
But that didn't happen. So why are you worried about it?”
“Because
you could have DIED!”
“As
you've said. However, I didn't die. I am, more or less, intact. So,
you can either waste time worrying about something that I had no
control over, and wasn't really harmed in the process, OR you can
pass me the cream.” I stared at Cory. He was right, of course. I
should be happy. I mean, not only did he not get mugged, he actually
took the guy out of commission. That's when I realized my part in the
group. Ben was the one that kept us calm, Spencer kept us moving
forward towards adulthood by pulling us along with him, and Cory made
sure we were never bored. Me?
I
was the Mom.
In
a few minutes, the police were there with ambulances for Cory, who was
probably going to need stitches, and the mugger, who was probably
going to need some surgery. I never stopped thinking about the
what-ifs though. About the things we can't control, even though we
try so hard to get a grip on what goes on in our lives. I guess we
don't really have a choice on what events happen to us. However, we
always have a choice on how we're going to respond to those events
when they come: Whether or not to let them get the best of you, or to
make the best of them. Or, as an ever present exception to the rule,
to let it happen, and just enjoy the ride. I guess what I'm trying to
say, is that when the waitress of life takes your coffee order, you
can choose to just take it black, ask for cream and sugar, or look
her dead in the eye and say “Surprise me.”
