A Good Cup of Coffee

A Good Cup of Coffee

Have you ever seen the huge coffee cups that they sell in 7-Eleven stores? I bought one of the turquoise ones, the kind with black wording that said "Refillable" on the outside and the word "GIANT" next to it with pink diamonds all around. The cup is terribly tacky and ugly, I'm afraid, but I adore drinking coffee from plastic, insulated cups. It tastes better that way. At least, that's what I used to think.

It all started this morning, a rainy Monday. You know what those are like, soggy as wet sneakers, and your eyes won't open wide because they're sagging from lack of sleep and just won't stay in an open position, no matter how many times you rub them -- at least, not until that first cup of coffee.

That's why I stumbled into the store, splashing a bit because there were puddles all around my car. The smell of coffee drew me forward. Greedily, I purchased the largest plastic cup they had. I rinsed it out, poured in some of the store's steaming brew, doctored my mug full with sweetener and a couple of shakes of flavored creamer -- Irish Cream, I think -- paid the cashier, and stepped back out into the pouring rain.

Of course, on my way to the car, the water managed to soak through my raincoat, moisten my slacks and shirt, and drizzle wet -- in the very same temperature as refrigerator water -- down my neck. Shivering, I unlocked my car door, slid in, and turned the heater up to high. Then I took my first sip of the sweet nectar of winter. It was just right.

Heaven. Pure heaven. Sure, some people think Nirvana is the rolling hills of a pasture that has a sprinkling of yellow daffodils and some cheerful red tulips. But that's not for me. My heaven is coffee, made just right, and doctored to perfection.

Content, even though it was Monday, I sighed and sipped, savoring the hot blasts of warm air on my wet, cold legs. The front windowpane fogged up. I changed the heater to defrost and peered out through the misted glass. Then I rolled the window down slightly, took a used tissue, and wiped.

While doing so, of course, I sipped some more of my delightful brew and I wished that life could always be this perfect -- warmth, hot coffee, and silence . . .

That was my mistake. I know it now. I shouldn't have wished. The coffee cup started glowing, but I didn't realize that at first. I was looking all around for my keys, which had slipped down onto the carpet beneath my feet. So at first, I wasn't even aware of what was happening.

But then my hands felt the vibration, and my eyes flew down to the pink-checkered detail on the plastic cup. I guess I should have screamed, but I'm more the silent, petrified type.

Last year when I slipped on an icy patch of sidewalk, several people wanted to assist me. They helped me up, but my right arm was dangling crookedly. At the sight of it, one of the ladies fainted. Another screamed. But I didn't. I simply looked down at the strange angle of my arm, and I said, "Whoops, I guess I need an x-ray." That's just the way I am.

So, when the coffee cup lit up like a pink Christmas tree, the word GIANT flashed on and off, and the "32 ounce" inscription on the side played ring-around-the-rosy with the word "Refillable," I guess I should have let out that traditional shriek, but I didn't. Like with the broken arm, I just sighed and tried to think about what I should do.

Because of that, the genie wouldn't come out. His face just wavered like a ripple across the top of the cup. His eyes shone in matching turquoise, which really rather surprised me because I'd never seen anyone with eyes that color. (Of course, I'd never seen anyone inside a coffee cup, either, but that didn't occur to me until much later.)

The genie continued to stare up at me and finally, impatiently, he said, "Hurry up and scream so I can get out of here. This coffee's burning my butt."

That was a horrific image. I immediately pushed the thought out of my mind and explained to the genie about not being the screaming type.

He sighed then too, and cautiously misted himself upward, completely fogging up my windowpane again.

"Hey, what are we in? A box?" the genie demanded, glaring down at me like I'd tricked him.

"We're inside my car. Can you please unfog yourself? I need to get to work."

"Yeah, yeah," the man said, wagging his finger at me. "You find a genie, and all you can do is complain?"

Somebody honked at me. I hadn't noticed, but the parking lot was full, and some guy in a big-wheeled diesel truck was giving me the finger.

Without comment, I backed my car out of its parking place.

"Hey! Watch it!" the genie yelled. "You're sloshing coffee all over me, and I hate sweetener. Because of that, you only get ONE wish!"

His words made about as much sense to me as having a genie in my coffee. I kept my eyes on the cars all around me, pulled out into the street, and drove off toward my school.

"Whoa, slow down," the genie demanded. "I wanna see. Is this a good neighborhood? Is it safe to walk around here? How many people live here? Where is "here," anyway, and . . ."

He kept up a string of chatter all the whole way to my elementary school. Desperately I wanted my cup of coffee back, although I certainly wasn't about to drink anything that had floated a genie's bottom. I pulled into the school's lot, got out of my car, slammed the door, and left the guy in there.

I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with a genie. Is it even legal to have one? Maybe I should just take the cup back to 7 Eleven. But, geez, what I'd give for a good cup of coffee. I sure wish . . ."