Of Coffee And Fritos
Earlier this morning I trudged, zombie-like, into a nearby coffee chain, my brain in dire need of swift and heavy caffeination after a long night of frantic, booze-fueled writing. While waiting in line, battling a wicked headache as I gave my best effort to completely ignore the artificially chipper, painfully vacuous chatter of the two middle-aged drones standing beside me (“Last night I decided to try ketchup on the wife’s meatloaf for the first time, and to be honest, it was only half as bad as I expected.” “Haha, you can’t really go wrong with ketchup. Next time, if you’re feeling brave, pour some on your mashed potatoes. That’s good eatin’ right there.”), I began to relish in the fact that within a few minutes I would be back on the road, steaming coffee in hand, traveling far, far away from this well-polished version of hell. Then I saw her – a long ago ex-girlfriend slumping oafishly behind the counter while she prepared to take my order. That she looked particularly horrible made me feel especially great. Our eyes met briefly. She spoke.
“Oh…It’s you. What the hell do you want?”
I paused for a moment, cleared my brain fog long enough to carefully consider her question, and replied, “I want to tell you that, at 36 years old, you sell grossly overpriced caffeinated bean water to poshly dressed addicts, because you chose to waste your trust fund on shitty cocaine and drunken excursions to Cancun, rather than pursue anything worthwhile.”
“I’m calling the manager,” she replied. And she did.
A moment later he showed up, fat n’ sassy and eyeballing me with fearful suspicion. “What do you need, sir?”
“Well,” I said, “I would like a large cup of strong, no-bullshit coffee, hot and ready to go.”
“No sir, I mean…What’s the problem here?”
“There’s no problem at all, other than that my ex-girlfriend, your employee, is apparently still upset that ten months of being a horrid bitch while eating Frito pies for breakfast caused her to balloon up to the extent that I dumped her on Valentine’s Day. As you can see, she still likes her Fritos.”
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave, sir.”
“What about my coffee?”
“Not today, sir.”
“How about some Fritos, then?”
“Leave now, sir”
“Ok, ok. But one more thing…Fritos, Fritos, Fritos.”
And I still haven’t had my fucking coffee.