I pick on the women that run the communal coffee station near my office area. It seems that before my time, folks took advantage of the one or two people that actually paid for coffee and creamer, so a new system was instituted that works really well, even if the system feels like a protection racket.

As an outsider, I definitely felt the pressure.

My first day on the job, a nice older lady comes to my desk and asks, “Do you drink coffee?”. I replied that I enjoy coffee quite a bit. I then expounded upon my tales of grinding the beans just right, adding the right amount of water, having half a dozen flavored creamers at home, and so forth. I expected a conversation about coffee or some comment about my blatant attempt at melodrama. Instead, I got a deadpan question:

“So, do you drink coffee?”

I replied that I do, in fact, drink coffee. What happened next can only be described upon reflection as Rod Serling‘s Night Gallery, Goodfellas, and SpongeBob.

“We have coffee here for only two dollars a month. It’s the best deal in town.”
“That sounds great, let me get settled and I’ll let you know,” I say.
“Do you have your two dollars?”
“I’ll have it in a minute, but let me think about it and I’ll get back to you.”
“It’s the best deal, you know. It sure beats paying 25 cents a cup.”
“I can get it free upstairs, you know, but I’ll be happy to join later, let me – ”
“Do you have your two dollars?”

Before I can answer, another lady has come into my office and engages the first lady. It doesn’t take long for the conversation to come back to me, however.

“John drinks coffee – he’s gonna be part of the club,” says the first lady.
“That’s great,” the second lady responds, “has he paid, yet?”

Then she looks at me and asks, “Have you paid your two dollars?”

A bit taken aback by all of this and really wanting to get back to work, I reply, “I will as soon as I have it.” I had decided that saying anything about pondering this investment would be like throwing paper pills at them. Telling them that I didn’t have the money right away, though, gave me some space to breathe for a while.

After lunch, however, I got the familiar question again, this time through a third lady that I had never met.

“Do you have your two dollars?”

Every morning for the next few days, I was greeted with the same question. Worn down and tired, I realized that the Coffee Mafia had me and that I would need to pay up. After all, I reasoned, it was for my own good. Besides, it’s only two dollars.

Exactly a month later, I realized that the payments were two dollars a month, not a year. I became a month late and discovered how unpleasant it can be to upset the Don. I came to work one morning with a pre-printed form. It said “Coffee Reminder at the top” and my name was written into the Name blank just underneath. At the top left was a picutre of a cluster of smiley faces. On the form itself was a spot to write in the month and dollar amount owed for each month along with a total on the bottom of the form. My form kindly pointed out that I had paid December’s fee, but not November’s fee. I owed a total of two dollars.

The next day, my good friend arrives and asks the famous question, “Do you have your two dollars?”

I am paid up for the next three years. I decided it was better this way as it helps me lower my blood pressure. Not only that, I discovered that there is a jumbo canister of creamer in the coffee area, now, as well as a box of Equal packets. As for the rest of my money, I consider it an investment in my own peace of mind.