PopcornJackTerry

Waking to the smell of coffee brewing represented so many small victories for him that he decided to do nothing but lay there with his eyes closed and enjoy the moment. Truth was there was no actual competition; such would indicate a prize for the winner and a penalty for the loser, but here the only stakes were first one up made the coffee.

First one up over the age of eighteen anyway. Their son and daughter, nine and seven in that order, had no use for coffee in the first place and were not inclined to make any if they had. Their Sunday mornings were as precious to them as they were to their parents, albeit in far different ways. Each Sunday would be a different activity it seemed like, the only commonality being a sense of creativity. One week they would be private detectives and the next would find them creating the artwork for an unveiling that would happen later in the day. Regardless of what it was, they always played with an unnatural sense of quiet and decorum, in spite of how fanciful the activity. Even if they did not feel the need to sleep in, they respected their parent’s right to do so.

Beyond having a cup of coffee waiting for him the larger victory was the use of the coffee maker itself. It had been an argument between them, one that was not nearly as important as it was made out to be at the time, but whatever sub textual tension that had been powering it eventually resolved itself or washed away on the next tide. It had all started as a matter of aesthetics versus practicality.

“We have the Keurig,” she said, pointing out the obvious. “And we rarely have more than one cup of coffee each, so it seems ridiculous to keep the old coffee maker out.”

“So instead we clutter up a cabinet with it, pulling it out for special occasions?”

“Precisely.”

He laughed, even though he knew it was far too early in the discussion to be treating it so frivolously, at least in her eyes. “Have you looked in the cabinets? We’re not exactly blessed with a lot of empty space in them.”

“We can move stuff around, make it fit.” Which is exactly what she set off to do. He decided to make a little extra room in the fridge by taking out a beer.

“The only way that we can make it happen is by putting something else on the counter, and nothing looks as natural on the counter top as a coffee maker.” She pretended not to hear him as she tried various combinations so he decided to offer some suggestions. “I guess we could put the crock pot up there, but if we’re talking about matters of practicality, that only gets used once a year, maybe twice, so that seems silly. I know you like the collection of pots and pans that my Aunt Harriet and Uncle Joe gave us for the wedding. Put those up, that will look pleasing to our guests. Then, let’s see, there’s always the.”

She didn’t let him get any further. “For as often as we use it, we could just put it in the basement, and not have to worry about any of this.”

“The best way to not worry about any of this is by not worrying about it now. It’s a coffee maker, coffee makers go on countertops, they have ever since the two were invented. Martha Stewart is not walking through that door anytime soon, so there’s no reason to panic about having it out. Is that the worry?”

It was her turn to laugh, because she knew she was being irrational, even if it made sense to her. “The worry is that it is just as easy to make six cups in that as it is one in the Keurig, and if given the chance, that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

“You’re afraid that you’ll be all hopped up on caffeine when I get home from work?”

“I could give two hoots about that. You know I can’t concentrate when I’ve had too much coffee, and if I can’t concentrate I can’t make deadlines.”

He moved from the counter he was leaning against and crossed over to her. “Don’t worry. I’ll send a note in to your editor. ‘Dear Sir. Please excuse Barbara’s tardiness with her latest submission. It seems she’s just a girl that can’t say no to too many cups of coffee. I’ve given her some Quaaludes and hopefully by tomorrow she’s have learned some better restraint.’ How does that sound?”

“Like someone who needs a swift kiss in the mouth.” Which he promptly received.

“Look, honey, if you want, I’ll lock up the grounds and the filters, so you won’t have a chance.”

“Just as long as you leave the key out for Sundays.”

It never actually came to that, although every week or so there was a day when he could tell the Keurig hadn’t been touched since he left for the office and any work she had was just going to wait for a day. In the meantime, every Sunday it was put into use.

The only rule was that the first person out of bed – bathroom trips not included – was responsible for making the coffee. Most mornings it was an act of habit. One of them would wake up, roll out of bed, stop in the bathroom and just keep going, but some mornings it became a test of wills. They would each lie there, staring at each other, tempting the other with all the things they could be doing while they were making the coffee. Sometimes they found more adventurous ways to make use of the time in bed, but he always found himself feeling so grateful and relaxed afterwards that the moment they started, they both knew she had won. Kyle, the son, was old enough and responsible enough to make sure both he and his sister ate breakfast, but lunch was beyond his scope of responsibility, and when that knock came at the door, a truce was called and both rose to greet the late morning.

Most of all though the victory meant he had managed to sleep in. A 5:15 alarm five days a week has a tendency to ring the other two even when it is not set. For a while he tried to convince himself this was a good thing. If he got out of the habit on the weekends it would only make the early part of the following week that much harder to bear. The opposite turned out to be the truth. After only a few weeks of waking up at the same time every day of the week it was discovered that the only thing bearish about Monday mornings was him, so he went back to the belief that a day of sleeping in was important, as good for the body as it was the soul.

The house was quiet enough that he could listen to the coffee as well as smell it, and by the sound he knew it was almost ready. He opened his eyes, preparing to time his victory lap just right, when he was thrown off by how low in the sky the sun still was. Fall was coming on in just a few weeks, and every year he found himself facing the same disbelief. Logically he knew that each day was a shorter by a minute on either end, but he never seemed to notice them until they had been stockpiled for several weeks, and suddenly it was still dawn when he was leaving for the station, and a fading dusk when he pulled into the driveway at night. Still he couldn’t believe that time had moved so quickly on him, so he focused a contact-less eye on the clock to discover that he was wrong and right all at the same time.

He was wrong in his belief that he had slept in, but right in that the sun was not in some lower position because time had become seasonably fluid again. And now that he was starting to wake fully, he recognized more of the world around him, namely that the bed still bore the weight of two people and not just one.

The smile on his face did not fade, merely changed, and he rolled himself out of bed. Kissing his wife on her forehead she mumbled the same thing she did every month or so when this happened. To an outsider it was no more than a garbled mess of the dictionary but he knew what she meant.

From the kitchen he could see the three of them playing in the backyard. He filled two mugs, both black and bitter, and headed out to join them. It would do him no good to ask what game they were playing; it would not have a name and the rules would be something less than even suggestions. As engaged as they were it was only the oldest set of eyes that turned to the sound of the door being opened, but his attention caught everyone else’s.

“Good morning Daddy,” his youngest cried out. “Look who’s here!”

“I can see that.” He stood on the patio, confident that all three would come to him, which they did. “Did he wake you up or were you two already waiting for him?”

“We couldn’t be waiting for him silly! We didn’t know he was coming.”

“Mmmm, yes there’s a lot of that going around. Did you two eat?”

“Just one Pop-Tart each.”

At this the benevolent coffee making stranger spoke up. “That’s no kind of a breakfast. Tell you what. You two go inside, wash up and tell your mother that breakfast will be served in, let’s see,” and here he checked his watch, “twenty two minutes and sixteen seconds.”

They laughed at the absurdity of the time but did as they were instructed. Meanwhile the other half of the quartet took a seat on the stone wall separating the patio from the backyard.

“You could have called.”

“That defeats the purpose of giving me a key.”

“Still it would be nice to know you’re coming.”

“Sorry warden. Next time I’ll send out a telegram.”

“Besides, what if we weren’t home?”

“Once again,” and this time he dangled the key.

“Right. Sorry. My logic isn’t kicking in yet. Must be this weak ass coffee someone made me.

His friend stood up and laughed. “Don’t blame me. I can only work with what I find in your kitchen.”

 

To be continued