Knife Wounds and Coffee Preference

     

     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.”