For Love of Coffee

I promise I’m a good person.

I honestly can’t tell you why I stopped for coffee that morning. It isn’t something that I normally do. Or, at least, it isn’t something that I did after I lost my license the last time around.

I’m not telling this well. Let me start over…

About nine months ago, I lost my license. I had been out for a friend’s birthday, had a bit too much to drink, and made the poor decision to drive home. I didn’t hurt anybody, but I was told that I did quite a lot of swerving and chose to ignore perhaps one too many traffic laws…I was pulled over, obviously, and since it wasn’t my first offense my license was suspended for eighteen months.

Of course, I still had to work. Right? So even though my license was suspended, I kept driving myself to and from work, and occasionally to the grocery store. But that was it, really. I limited myself to the necessities, and I made very sure that I followed all traffic laws in those few instances that I drove. I definitely didn’t drive drunk. And generally I’m a safe driver, so it’s not like I was putting anyone at risk by driving without a license.

I had mapped out the fastest route to the office, and I even took my car out and drove a few different routes to try to figure out if I could find the shortest route that also had the least amount of traffic. I figured that way, with fewer cars around, I’d be less likely to get into an accident and less likely to get pressured by the speedsters around me into speeding myself.

It worked! I was able to find a route that was only about one mile longer than the shortest route, but that primarily used backroads, so traffic each day was comparatively light!

And that’s how it started. Every day, Monday through Friday (and excluding holidays, of course), I would drive to and from the office using my new special route. In order to minimize my time driving, every morning I would make a coffee at my house and take it to work with me. It was hard to give up my daily stop at Jungle Roasters, but I managed. In fact, after the first month or two, I didn’t miss it all that much.

It had been almost one full year since my license had been suspended, and I hadn’t stopped at Jungle Roasters a single time. I would make my coffee, hit the road, and refill my travel mug with a pot of freshly-brewed swill when I got to the office. But earlier that week, I’d been under a lot of stress. I had lost a little bit of money at the casino, and I had a couple of big work projects that I hadn’t started on, and I was really stressed.

I, after much internal debate, accepted a friend’s invitation to go out for a Thursty Thursday happy hour at The Silo, to try to unwind a bit. I had a couple of beers, and maybe a shot, but went home pretty early. Once I got home, I spent some time scrolling on my phone before going to bed.

My phone must have had some kind of issue overnight though, because the alarm never went off the following morning. My eyes just kind of popped open (due to my natural rhythms, I guess). When I rolled over to look at my phone, I realized that I was half an hour late getting up for work! Needless to say, I rushed through my routine. I chugged some OJ, had a quick shower, gave my teeth a quick pass with the toothbrush, threw some food down for my cat, MukBang, and my fish, George, and was out the door.

I felt my stomach drop as I pulled out of the driveway. I hadn’t made any coffee. What was I going to do without my daily caffeine fix? I didn’t have time to make a pot, and I couldn’t fuel my day on the dirty water that passes for coffee at my office. And my head hurt, probably from the caffeine withdrawal, so I needed to make a decision.

I decided to go to Jungle Roasters. Why not? I had followed my special route for the past eleven months, so surely it wouldn’t matter if I stopped for coffee just one time. After all, if I hadn’t been pulled over since the suspension then the odds were that I wouldn’t be pulled over that day either!

Let me tell you what, my normal work route was much better than trying to go to work by way of Jungle Roasters. My normal route, like I said, was off the beaten path. It was made up of two-lane backroads and shortcuts through neighborhoods. There was so much more traffic on this route! It wasn’t stop-and-go, or anything like that, but it was definitely much more congested than I was used to. And people drove like they were being chased by something! They were weaving in and out of traffic, tailgating, slamming on their brakes at the last minute…I had almost forgotten just how stressful a morning commute could actually be! Just the shift from two-lane roads to a four-lane highways during rush hour was significant.

I was only a block or two from the coffee shop (I could even see the sign, its bright orange lettering standing out among the yellow arches, red pigtails, green mermaids of other signage) when it happened. Some jerk in a Honda Accord cut me off and slammed on the brakes.

Now, I’m a good driver, but there was nothing I could do. There was a sizeable gap between my car and the one in front of me, and then all of as sudden there wasn’t; it was filled by a dark green four door sedan that was suddenly slamming on its brakes. I stomped the pedal and looked to swerve, my eyes darting from mirror to mirror like a bouncy ball in a drier, but there was no where to go. I had cars on the left, and no shoulder on the right, just the decorative foliage of a suburban sprawl.

The impact was jarring. My head jerked forward and then back when my seatbelt locked. My head bounced against the back of my seat. I was surprised that the air bags didn’t deploy though. Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do in an accident like that? Pop out to protect me from mashing my face against the steering wheel? I guess it doesn’t really matter, since my face didn’t make it that far, but it was still a bit disconcerting that they didn’t work.

For a moment I wasn’t sure if I was hurt or not. I blinked a few times, muttered a few pointed expletives, and slowly started rolling my head around. Everything felt intact. My headache wasn’t any better, but at least I didn’t seem to be actually hurt.

I sighed. Deeply. I couldn’t believe it. All I’d wanted was a cup of coffee. Was that too much to ask?

I unbuckled myself and opened the car door, noticing that the driver of the car that had caused the accident was doing the same. We stepped out of our respective vehicles almost in sync. He was tall. Taller than I am by a few inches, at least. He was bald. Not like a shaved head, but the kind of bald where there is no hair on top but there is hair around the sides and back of his head. I remember the sun reflecting off of the top of his head. He seemed to move stiffly as he walked toward the back of his car to inspect the damage.

I am not a mechanic, but there was definitely some damage. My car, a Ford Bronco, Outer Banks edition, was less damaged. It was still dented and it was clear that I’d been in an accident; but it wasn’t bad. His car was bad.

“Everybody okay?” he asked. It was a weird way to phrase it, right? It was just me and him, so who was “everybody”? And was he asking himself if he was okay as well? Was he a schizo?

“Uh. I’m fine. Just a little shaken up. Are you okay?” I asked. It seemed like the right thing to say at the time.

He nodded as he looked at the back of his car, reaching out to touch bits of flaking paint.

“Yeah, I’m okay, I think. My back feels a little tight, but it isn’t bad.” We were silent for a moment as we each looked at our vehicles.

“Well,” he continued. “I guess we should get the police out here to file a report. Do you have insurance?”

What did he mean “get the police out here”? We didn’t need the police. I had insurance, I’m sure he did too, and neither of us was hurt. We could just swap info and go our separate ways, right? Let the insurance companies handle it?

“Uh,” I began, “yeah, I have insurance. Let me grab my phone from the car to get your info.” He was already looking down at his phone. Preparing to call the non-emergency line, no doubt.

My heart, which had just been starting to slow after the accident started to speed back up. Why did he need to call the police? I was driving on a suspended license; I didn’t want to see the police! If the cops came, they’d…what? Arrest me? I couldn’t go to jail. I had a cat and a goldfish at home! They needed me! If I didn’t feed MukBang, then he’d eat George, no questions asked!

I jammed my hands into my pockets to try to hide their shaking. My breath started to come in shakier gasps. My heart, my poor little heart, was pounding at a mile a minute. I started to back toward my car, trying to appear as nonchalant as I possibly could.

“Right. So. Just going to get my phone, then.” I started to turn toward my car. I was only going to get one shot at this, I knew.

A few steps later I was at the edge of my door. I glanced back up at Baldy. He was on the phone, facing away from me, gazing under his hand at the closest street signs. Presumably he was trying to give the police our location so that they could hurry over to throw me in a cell. I wasn’t going to let that happen.

Seizing the moment, I yanked open the car door and dove inside. I jammed my thumb into the start button and slammed the car into drive. Jerking the wheel as hard as I could to the left, I stomped on the gas pedal. I almost made it past Baldy’s Accord, too. I just barely nicked the back end as I swerved into the left lane, the impact making a soft thump against my front end as I passed. It felt a lot different than the first collision did.

I think I hit another car in the left lane too. There was a gap that I’d tried to shoot in to, but the other cars were driving way too fast around our accident. Luckily, the accident had created a block in traffic. While I’m sure it was Hell on Earth for the cars behind us, in front of us there was actually quite a bit of open road. There was plenty of space for me to move in and out of the other vehicles as I tried to get away from where the cops were sure to be arriving at any minute.

I had to think fast. Where was I supposed to go? The Jungle Roasters was pretty close to halfway between work and my house. I was confident of that fact because of all the research I had done scouting various work routes a few months back. But if I went to work, I’d have to park in the building parking lot, and my car would be visible to anyone curious enough to look. Even though the office was still a few miles from the coffee shop, I couldn’t risk an officer seeing my Bronco. Home it was, then.

The drive was smooth; I was moving against traffic at that point. They were all heading in to the city, while I was heading back out to the suburbs. I rerouted myself back to my special route. It didn’t quite run parallel to the main road where I’d had my accident, and since it was primarily backroads, I really hoped that the police wouldn’t expect to find me out there. Surely, they’d expect me to stick to the main roads, expecting me to try to get away as fast as possible, right?

I remember passing flashing blue lights twice. And an ambulance. They were all going the opposite direction. I even made especially sure to pull off to the side of the road as the ambulance passed; I definitely didn’t want to call any more attention to myself.

It seemed like hours, but finally I made it home. I pulled in to my garage and closed it behind me, ready to call in sick and ride out the weekend in solitude. I’d Uber to work for the next couple of weeks and let the heat die down for a bit before I started driving back in to the office. I resolved to check my work’s mileage reimbursement policy over the weekend too. Maybe I could get them to cover my commute expenses! I should have thought of that months ago.

It was the very next Monday that I was arrested. The police came to my work. To their credit, I guess, they didn’t barge in and drag me out of the office and past everyone’s cubicles. Instead they called me into a conference room where I was met by one officer in plain clothes and my boss. I don’t remember what was said. I felt like I was under water. Or like I was watching myself from a distance. The officer led me out of the office suite to the elevator bay, where another officer (this one in uniform) was waiting. They handcuffed me.

Once I was done being processed…

I’m sorry? Oh. Oh, that’s all you needed? Sorry, I misunderstood.

Not guilty, your honor.