12:00 p.m. - 2004-06-15
S.O.B.
Those crazy volunteers...
Well, today I had a volunteer meeting in Seattle. About 18 volunteers, most of whom are retirees, file in, scanning the room for the coffee table. I smile, point to the muffin table, inquire about grand children, and guard the coffee maker like it's the Hope diamond. See, here's the situation. The coffee takes about 25 minutes to brew. The meeting begins at 9:30. I do not have access to the meeting room, which is in a nursing home in the north end of Seattle, until about 9:05 because there is a meeting going on in there until then. SO at 9:05, I briskly set up the 24 cup coffee maker and press start. I unwrap muffins, pass out agendas, etc. At 9:10, people start showing up. The two things I really don't understand about old people are their fear of not being able to find a parking space and their insistance on being 20 minutes early for everything. I think these two things are somehow connected, probably rooted in an intense fear of being late....which seems to have totally escaped our generation. So, anyway, in they come at 9:10 and straight to the perking, steaming, white alter they head.
"It's not ready yet." I say politely, trying to look like the fact that I am in their way is coincidental .
A dirty look is shot and I am ignored, brushed aside like a cobweb. They pull the lever toward them and their cup fills with viscous opaque fluid. They make a face.
"Who made this?" they say, scowling. "It's too strong."
I sigh. See, the coffee at the bottom of the tank, during the brewing is the strongest because it passes through the ground first. If you wait until it's all brewed, it mixes itself thoroughly, and provides a tasty, well-balanced cup. Two more people do the exact same thing, despite the friendly but firm announcement I made to everyone about the coffee not being ready yet, and that I would let them know when it was. These people dump out the coffee, making irritated faces, and wander back to their seats, deeming it "Strong enough to kill a horse, etc." Eventually the last, emphatic puff escapes from the lid and the "ready" light ignites, like a beacon of hope for a better tomorrow and thoroughly caffienated old people. An expectant volunteer approaches, cup outstretched. He fills his cup, adds a dash of cream, squinting to examine the color. When you drink alot of coffee, you know precisely the color a "splash" of cream added to coffee makes. If it's not right, you know...but you taste it anyway. He lifts it to his lips, eyebrows raised as the coffee enters his mouth with a soft slurping noise. A small snort of dissatisfaction and disappointment reaches my ears with the words "it's weak."
I weep gently, tears dotting the pink Sweet N' Low packets. Of course it's weak. The strong part was just dumped down the drain before it had a chance to blend with the....oh well. I take a cleansing breath and choose not to take this personally. I pour myself a cup of shitty coffee, the quality level known as "hot water dressed in brown" and grab some carrot sticks.
Across the room, I hear a volunteer, a sweet woman in her sixties, just said "S.O.B". I'm fairly certain I couldn't have heard her right. For a brief moment I wonder if she's referring to the coffee and me. I lean, casually tuning into her conversation. "...I mean he was seriously having some S.O.B. issues, and that's not something to take lightly." The person she is talking to looks equally confused and says "S.O.B?" and the woman says "Well yes...and it was serious S.O.B. not the kind that's no big deal." Other people have trailed off, catching the term this time around. The room that was just a second ago filled with four or five conversations is now nearly silent except for someone asking if the coffee is ready yet...I am in mid carrot crunch, and look to my boss who hastily and nervously kind of laughs and says "I think Emma was explaining to John about a resident who was having Shortness Of Breath."
Oh. Of course.
