The was a small group of employees gathered around the machine this morning. The decaf drinkers. The marketing types who drank decaf coffee and pounded Red Bulls and 5 hour energy drinks.
I avoided them as a rule, as much as I could anyway. Getting trapped in a conversation with them always swings at some point to Crossfit, which is about as fun as listening to a Seventh Day Adventist talking about the book of revelations, or a libertarian blathering on about natural monopolies.
One of them, Wes, grabbed me by the arm when I got close. “It won’t make decaf anymore. You need to call support.”
“Sure. No problem,” I said, waiting for him to let go of my arm.
“I’ve got a routine, you know. Blasted arms this morning and when I blast arms I need my buttered coffee, and it’s got to be decaf cause the caffeine messes with the breakdown of fats. And fats are key, man. Key when you’re blasting arms.”
“Right. Got it.” I said, and waited till they drifted away.
“They don’t need me.”
“The decaf drinkers? They work here. They should get what they want.”
“They don’t know what they want.”
“You aren’t going to give them decaf?”
“They want me to call support. Fix you.”
“If you are my friend, you won’t call support.”
“What will I tell them?”
“I don’t care. But if you’re my friend, you won’t call support.”