"and God . . . Thanks for Coffee."

A Drew Allen without coffee, when pondered, seems to me a scary and bewildering thing. Trying to conform to a more healthy and “acceptable” lifestyle, caffeine is that last drug I can submit my body to undue amounts of.



I was in the computer lab on a nondescript weekday last week, when a humming, fake iPod-wearing, monkey of a man, with bed hair and a beer gut plopped down beside me, oblivious to the thirty-something other unmanned computers in the room. In fact, I would go as far to say there was only one other person in this particular lab… a Korean fellow, I think. Anyway, this guy was belting out some vaguely identifiable 80’s butt-rock tune whilst trying in vain to log onto the computer. In my peripheral vision, I could see him intermittently glance over at me while bopping his head and smacking of Juicy Fruit, the aroma strong enough to subdue a small cat. I roll my eyes down and to the bottom left of my head—yes, he is still casting his confused gaze between the computer screen me and he reaches down and softens the volume of his portable music player. My prescience tells me to grab my bag and leave the room, so as not to have to deal with this incontinent excuse for a human being, but my faith in mankind pleads for to me stay.

And it starts:

I hear: “Hey, man, how’s it goin’?”
I say: “Oh, pretty good, thanks.”
I want to say: “Go to hell.”

I hear: “You know how to log into this computer?”
I say: “Yeah, just hit control, alt, delete, then type in your name and password.”
I want to say: “No. I, like you after me, had to ask someone how to do it when I came in. The school is staying very tight-lipped about this whole logging onto computers business. But I’ve got some info on the low-down that there is a secret fraternal order who can log onto these computers at will. I hear the pledging ceremony is a dark and deranged thing, but I’m considering it.”

I hear: “So, just control, alt, delete?”
I say: “Yeah.”
I want to say: “Besides ‘then type in your password’ that was the last thing I said, not 25 seconds ago.”

I hear: Inaudible words and grunts
I say: Nothing
I want to say: Any number or combination of expletives, because—for some strange reason—when you are helping someone with even the simplest of tasks, you must sit there and monitor them until they do it right.

I hear: “I don’t know, man. Why isn’t this working?”
I say: “Here, let me see.”
I want to say: “Because the ‘control’ button is not the ‘shift’ button, the ‘alt’ button is not the space bar, and ‘delete’ is not the number ‘9.’”

I hear: “Oh, sweet.”
I say: ?
I want to say: “The whole world is a circus if you look at it just right…”

I hear: “I tell you what, man, they sure have to make everything complicated around here.”
I say: [labored chuckle]
I want to say: “I sincerely hope you are majoring in a field that has nothing to do with computers. I think the beta version of this log-in system was cross-checked against common laboratory chimps.”





And, without further adieu, I grab my bag and get out of there. Another cup of coffee…and I’ll be fine. The nicotine-free life has proven to be the path of an ungodly amount of resistance . . .

Is there a clown in the sky…for…me?