Untrue Crime
I’ll Never Drink Decaf Again
The wound is still too fresh.
If I were on death row, there is not much that I would talk about with a priest. I have already made peace with most of my sins. I’ve taken back the insults I didn’t mean for other people to overhear and glued my sister’s incredibly ugly vase back together. I’m all set with the major stuff, except for one thing. If I were on death row, I would talk with the priest about the coffee.
Many years ago, when I spent my summer interning at a local law firm, my favorite part of the job was the coffee. Every day, I watched in awe as it spewed from a hulking machine. The bean grinder alone was so big that it made Criminal Law and Procedure 4th Edition look like Fundamentals of Modern Law Volume III.
This was not a kitchen appliance for the faint of heart.
It was decked out with dual burners. Black pot — caf. Orange pot — decaf. Dunkin’ Donuts’ best blends from across the tristate area. I was in heaven.
This machine was — you might be surprised to hear — communal. She brewed coffee for any member of the office staff who fancied a pick-me-up, though I was definitely her favorite. We were all expected to brew a new pot if we were running low, but the onboarding process — you might be surprised to hear — did not feature a detailed tutorial on how to tame the beast. For several weeks, I avoided it best I could.
If I saw a pot was nearing its end, I could generally get away with taking a half cup or pretending that I didn’t notice how low it was. Shirking the job off to a senior staff member was the name of the game. Like magic, when I waited just 20 minutes, I would return to an empty kitchen and a full pot.
That is until one fateful morning when I was nearly falling asleep at my desk. I had been out late the night before at an amateur cage match. I needed all the pot could give me. No one would even notice.
As I stirred my creamer and talked myself off the ledge, someone waltzed into the kitchen and offered me a “Good morning.” It was Timothy Jonson, Esquire, of Johnson, Jonson, Geohnson & Johnston. He was a legend in administrative law circles and my boss’s boss twice removed.
All I could do was watch in horror as he lifted his mug towards the black pot because just seconds before, I filled the caf pot with decaf.
I began to bargain with myself, screaming in my head that it wasn’t my fault that I didn’t know how to work the machine. Yes, it was an indiscretion, but it was an innocent one. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.
It took all I had not to spontaneously combust right there on the linoleum tiles when he slurped the duplicitous coffee. I pictured Timothy Jonson, Esquire ripping through the office like King Kong and screaming, “Who replaced the regular coffee with decaf?!” Before long, I would be face down in the guillotine, and my head would roll for my crime.
I waited and waited all day, jumping out of my seat every time a phone rang, or the printer switched on, but nothing happened.
From that day on, I had to give myself an alibi on the off chance that some new DNA evidence reopened the cold case. I stuck to the pathetic Keurig in the pathetic auxiliary kitchen, claiming through gritted teeth that I preferred its flavor. The coffee machine never looked at me the same after that. It was sick, karmic retribution.
The guilt ate at me until it was all I could think about. Every day, every night, it was all decaf, decaf, decaf. I felt like a ball of rubber bands, bunched together, teetering on explosion.
Then Malcolm the paralegal stepped into the auxiliary kitchen one morning.
“If you could make sure to fill up the water tank again after you brew your cup, that would be awesome,” he spat at me, devilishly. “That way it’ll be ready for the next person.”
He knew. I know he knew. Why else would he be taunting me like that? I didn’t wait around to find out. I ran out of the office before the Keurig stopped dripping, and I haven’t been back since.
Sometimes I think about that place — all that I gave up, all that I lost. Sometimes I think about Timothy Jonson, Esquire and the coffee machine and the decaf. Sometimes I think about going back for my phone, wallet, and laptop. But mostly, the thought of that office sends shivers down my spine, as if it were a ghost, haunting me.
