Vicarious Energy

Vicarious Energy
Originally published 11/95 in "The Silver Valley Voice" - Moonshine Hill Press



“Vicarious Energy”: a short story too many people can relate to
by Jeffrey Lageson

The heart pumps blood through our veins to all parts of our bodies. Mostly, this goes by without notice. And then there are the times where we can feel the blood go by molecule by molecule. A pulsing in the temples that manages to remind us that we are alive while making us wish that we weren’t.

Judging from the number of molecules coursing through my head I decide that my resting pulse rate is far too high.

Somehow, I struggle out of bed and stagger to the bathroom, avoiding various obstacles that could stub various appendages along the way. A hot shower opens my eyes halfway to the waking world. If anyone at work asks, yes I am growing a beard. The water continues to beat down on my shoulders, hot jets of heaven easing some of the tension from my body. The old habit of setting my clothes out before I go to bed comes in handy. Finally, I’m in the kitchen. Normally, I start the coffee pot before I go in the shower so I guess I’ll have to wait.

Damn.
Wrong.
I’m out of coffee.
I knew that when I went to bed. How could I have let this happen? Coffee is the elixir of life and I have none. The clock reads 6:14AM. There is time.

The truck starts quicker than I did and I’m off to pursue the cup of black medicine my body craves. There’s already a line at Perky’s Coffee. Patiently I stand in line, time to spare after all.

“Double tall...”
“Non-fat single...”
“Coffee of the day please...”
The lingo of the addicted coffeeholics. Except for the happy little blonde morning person ordering a decaf. We’re all groggy, patience overstated by our collective sleepiness. Two bucks is a bargain for our morning fix. Finally, next in line.

Two bucks?
Damn.
Wrong.
My wallet is sitting on the TV next to my work keys. A mental picture as clear as the scene in front of me focuses in my brain. The strain causes more blood to pulse through my temples. The exact positioning of both items is clearly embedded within my brain. Star Trek transporter technology would come in handy right now. Actually, any science fiction technology would come in handy right about now. At 6:14AM I could have just said, “Triple mocha, grande, hot.” Low and behold there it would have been in my handy computer operated house. Even a cup of “Tea, Earl Grey, hot,” would enable me to fulfill a small Captain Picard wannabe fantasy.

Traffic has picked up already as I push my old car to its in city limits. Of course, there are my keys and my wallet, right where I left them. Right where I wouldn’t possibly forget them. Luck being what it is, I no longer have time to stop and get a jolt. Three drive through espresso carts are on my route to work, but they all have long lines. Hence, I keep going.

“You drink too much coffee,” the doctor said to me last month.
“How can you tell?” I asked.
“You listed your blood type as ‘House Blend’ on your insurance form,” she replied.
“Oh,” I said.
It’s 6:55AM before I finally get to my office. No time for stopping downstairs at the nine little shops that have espresso machines.

“Good morning,” the new receptionist says to all of us staggering off the elevator. My otherwise dull senses pick up a distinct aroma in the office, fresh brewed coffee. The world is more fair than I had thought. I glance around at my fellow office drones, that glazed look in all of our eyes. It’s only Tuesday and already we’re in need of a big, bad jolt. I take a deep breath, inhaling the aroma of coffee, wanting to get down on my knees and thank God Almighty for such a wondrous drug. I mean, such a wondrous drink.

The nine businesses downstairs brewing the stuff, a little stand here, a big shop there, are testaments to the unnecessary importation of Colombia’s other cash crop. The entrepreneurial spirit of this country is alive and well and milking money out of us office drone burnouts. As we sit at our desks and plug away in our cubicles, staring blankly at requests from supervisors it is obvious to anyone that too many of us are in a perpetual state of burnout and easily open to influence.

It is therefore no surprise that there are nine espresso machines commercially operated in the building. Yet another example of how demand can create supply in our great and mighty capitalist free market society. Of course, our susceptibility also explains the popularity of mindless fluff like “Baywatch” and “Melrose Place”.

Sorry, digression.
Part of me wants to open a coffee shop of my own. The money I could make off of such a venture is staggering. I could live the American Dream. For now though, I’ll have to settle for being asleep long enough to dream on any given night.

Another part of me wants to put a survey on the 9AM meeting agenda to see haw many people want to forget the stupid meeting and go on a field trip downstairs to the coffee shop. As it is there will be a number of people with their cups full of that wondrous beverage.

“Have a latte,” a friend that shall remain unnamed said to me one day, “they are soooooo good.”
Then I had another and one day I woke up to find myself standing in line ordering a “double-grande-something-or-other” and ready to shell out three bucks for it. It was a Wednesday evening.

My brother wants me to quit. “Dude,” he said, “you drink too much coffee man.”
That would be a great superhero name for a parody.
One day I forgot and the headache nearly killed all of those around me. It simply cannot be done so I find that I don’t even like to talk about quitting. It’s a different type of addiction. The beans themselves smell so good. Dip a bean in chocolate and mmm-mmm. Going out for a cup of coffee has become a reasonable date for my generation. A delicacy to be shared.

There are tea drinkers who do not understand this infatuation coffee drinkers have. Did the colonials in Boston dump coffee? I think not. They truly were wise. It was only later that they dumped England itself. Their priorities were in order.

At 9AM in our meeting I’m going to stand up and scream and lead a revolt against our little middle level management guy if he does not heed the call to coffee.

“Yo man,” a voice says behind me.
“Good morning Pete,” I say.
“I’m heading downstairs to grab a jolt, want me to bring you up one?”
“Yeah...” I say stupefied.
“Pay me later,” he says.
“Bless you,” I say, turning to go to my desk to wait for my wonderful friend to return.

Jeffrey Lageson drinks too much coffee in Pullman.