Black Coffee

“I'll settle this for you,” he interjected. Karen rolled her eyes as she evacuated her seat beside me to give way to her father. He unloaded his armful of coffee paraphernalia next to the cup and began sorting through the various packets. “The man holding the gun is responsible. It's as simple as that. I don't understand why it is always some one else's fault. This person should have been diagnosed with this, the doctor should have done this, the social worker should have said that.”

“I don't deny that,” I explained, “but if some one is in a position with better perspective on some one's condition‒”

“No condition! There's no disease, or sickness, the guy was nuts. He may not have always been nuts, but the difference between normal and crazy can be rather small and subtle.” He twirled his spoon rapidly around the mug; he examined each sweetener packet in great detail, but ultimately each was dumped into the mug.

“So if you see dark storm clouds, it's sensible to go start a round of golf because sometimes they just pass by, you don't know if its going to rain until it actually does?” I asked.

“Fair point, you have to use your judgment, but if you're one of those people who blames the weatherman any time the report is wrong, you'll be in for a lot of frustration.” The spoon bashed against the sides of the mug. “What's going on here? I'm pourin' in the creamer, this is still jet black; Karen, is there milk in the fridge?”

“I realize just because some one lives alone, likes to talk about Jesus a lot, has an odd appearance, you don't have them locked up for it, but there were legitimate warning signs. The people entrusted to address them chose not too,” I explained, “they ignored it. Stop it with the spoon!”

“It's still black”

“What does it taste like?”

“Well-”

“Like cream?”

“Yeah, but-”

“You want an ice cream cone to throw in there, that should lighten it up,” I laughed.

“I've never seen this. What kind of beans did you use? I'm getting, like, a barbeque flavor.”

“Yeah, those beans you got, Karen! These beans got annihilated,” I yelled, “roasted to death. But it looks fine.”

“Fine? It's mostly milk and creamer and still black,” he whined.

“I'm not sure what you're looking for. That's just coffee for ya; it's dark. Close your eyes and drink it.”

“Everyone needs to be diagnosed, classified, and categorized,” Karen's father carried on, “they have had doctors diagnosing mental problems for hundreds of years, and every decade or so, they realize everything they thought they knew was completely wrong, but still somehow believed what they were currently finding out would hold up forever. It all turns out to be wrong, if for no other reason than the next generation needs to puts its own ideas into effect and runs out the old ones. Regardless of reality, everyone perceives the current thought to be accurate and the old ideas obsolete.”

“You're right. It's incomprehensible to think that some one who has threatened a person would actually harm them.”

“I taste something else. Cream, sugar, barbeque, and kind of like when you stick your tongue on a 9 volt battery.”

“It's those chemical sweeteners, there made out of old battery acid.”

“Just try it,” he said shoving the cup towards my face.”

“Get outta here. I saw what you did to that.”

“I think this is not working with my stomach. Huuh...huuuh.” he kept forcing his exhales. “huh.”

“I'd recommend some medicine, but that could be misconstrued as diagnosing your problem, I don't want to offend.”

“Huuuh....hah...huuh, I can't tell, is my breathing weird?”

“Absolutely.”

“What color is sugar, really? Know what I mean? Is it really white, or does it just appear that way, like broken glass looks white, but, it's glass; it's actually clear.”

“I don' know,” I answered.

“It's just odd how black it is. Is it the lighting?” He raised his head to exam the chandelier, “is the dimmer on a different setting?” He angled his head in different directions trying to get the light to illuminate a light brown color.

“But at least you can agree there is no sense in assigning some one a social worker if that person is not going to make any effort to properly do their job.” I kept pushing the subject.

“My theory on social workers: they've probably got more wrong with them than the people they're dealing with; they just never got labeled as such. Plus, when you spend all day around weirdos and invalids, what sense of normal behavior can you really maintain?” His blinking intensified. He stared deeply into the mug, then twitched his eyelids rapidly attempting to reveal a new perspective.

“I saw the interview with that woman,” I explained, “the social worker. Definitely something wrong with her. I wouldn't trust her to do any more than pick up an old person's mail.”

“There you go-”

“What?”

“huuuh-”

“What?” I repeated. His breathing was strained and he kept tapping his foot on the floor.”

“Suppose you ought to report her, cause when she goes off and kills some one, you'll be the one to blame, since you saw it coming right from the start...huh...huh.”

“No I don't think I'll be the one they blame.”

“huh”

“Did you hear me-” I nudged him on the arm, his head began to dive towards the mug. I slipped it to the side as his skull bounced off the table then his whole body crept to the floor. “I'll clean this up for you; you're right, it is awfully black.” A tiny few last breathes slipped from his mouth. “but I suppose its your own fault for pulling the trigger and drinking it.”