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Coffee
by
Richard Brautigan
Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a
cup of coffee affords. I once read something about coffee. The thing
said that coffee is good for you; it stimulates all the organs.
I thought at first this was a strange way to put it, and not altogether
pleasant, but as time goes by I have found out that it makes sense in
its own limited way. I'll tell you what I mean.
Yesterday morning I went over to see a girl. I like her. Whatever
we had going for us is gone now. She does not care for me. I blew
it and wish I hadn't.
I rang the door bell and waited on the stairs. I could hear her
moving around upstairs. The way she moved I could tell that she
was getting up. I had awakened her.
Then she came down the stairs. I could feel her approach in my
stomach. Every step she took stirred my feelings and lead indirectly
to her opening the door. She saw me and it did not please her.
Once upon a time it pleased her very much, last week. I wonder
where it went, pretending to be naive.
"I feel strange now," she said. "I don't want to talk."
"I want a cup of coffee," I said, because it was the last thing in the
world that I wanted. I said it in such a way that it sounded as if I
were reading her a telegram from somebody else, a person who
really wanted a cup of coffee, who cared about nothing else.
"All right," she said.
I followed her up the stairs. It was ridiculous. She had just put some
clothes on. They had not quite adjusted themselves to her body. I
could tell you about her ass. We went into the kitchen.
She took a jar of instant coffee off the shelf and put it on the table.
She placed a cup next to it, and a spoon. I looked at them. She put
a pan full of water on the stove and turned the gas on under it.
All this time she did not say a word. Her clothes adjusted
themselves to her body. I won't. She left the kitchen.
Then she went down the stairs and outside to see if she had any
mail. I didn't remember seeing any. She came back up the stairs and
went into another room. She closed the door after her. I looked at
the pan full of water on the stove.
I knew that it would take a year before the water started to boil. It
was now October and there was too much water in the pan. That
was the problem. I threw half of the water into the sink.
The water would boil faster now. It would take only six months.
The house was quiet.
I looked out the back porch. There were sacks of garbage there. I
stared at the garbage and tried to figure out what she had been
eating lately by studying the containers and peelings and stuff. I
couldn't tell a thing.
It was now March. The water started to boil. I was pleased by this.
I looked at the table. There was the jar of instant coffee, the empty
cup and the spoon all laid out like a funeral service. These are the
things that you need to make a cup of coffee.
When I left the house ten minutes later, the cup of coffee safely
inside me like a grave, I said, "Thank you for the cup of coffee."
"You're welcome," she said. Her voice came from behind a closed
door. Her voice sounded like another telegram. It was really time
for me to leave.
I spent the rest of the day not making coffee. It was a comfort. And
evening came, I had dinner in a restaurant and went to a bar. I had
some drinks and talked to some people.
We were bar people and said bar things. None of them
remembered, and the bar closed. It was two o'clock in the morning.
I had to go outside. It was foggy and cold in San Francisco. I
wondered about the fog and felt very human and exposed.
I decided to go visit another girl. We had not been friends for over a
year. Once we were very close. I wondered what she was thinking
about now.
I went to her house. She didn't have a door bell. That was a small
victory. One must keep track of all the small victories. I do,
anyway.
She answered the door. She was holding a robe in front of her. She
didn't believe that she was seeing me. "What do you want?" she
said, believing now that she was seeing me. I walked right into the
house.
She turned and closed the door in such a way that I could see her
profile. She had not bothered to wrap the robe completely around
herself. She was just holding the robe in front of herself.
I could see an unbroken line of body running from her head to her
feet. It looked kind of strange. Perhaps because it was so late at
night.
"What do you want?" she said.
"I want a cup of coffee," I said. What a funny thing to say, to say
again for a cup of coffee was not what I really wanted.
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. She was not
pleased to see me. Let the AMA tell us that time heals. I looked at
the unbroken line of her body.
"Why don't you have a cup of coffee with me?" I said. "I feel like
talking to you. We haven't talked for a long time."
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. I stared at the
unbroken line of her body. This was not good.
"It's too late," she said. "I have to get up in the morning. If you want
a cup of coffee, there's instant in the kitchen. I have to go to bed."
The kitchen light was on. I looked down the hall into the kitchen. I
didn't feel like going into the kitchen and having another cup of
coffee by myself. I didn't feel like going to anybody else's house and
asking them for a cup of coffee.
I realized that the day had been committed to a very strange
pilgrimage, and I had not planned it that way. At least the jar of
instant coffee was not on the table, beside an empty white cup and a
spoon.
They say in the spring a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love.
Perhaps if he has enough time left over, his fancy can even make
room for a cup of coffee.
from Revenge of the Lawn
The Final Ride
The act of dying
is like hitch-hiking
into a strange town
late at night
where it is cold
and raining,
and you are alone
again.