The following story comes from one of my very favorite bloggers who has asked to remain anonymous. When said blogger asked to borrow some Mommypie space, I of course said CHAH. Which means yes. Because said blogger always has the very best stories and tells them so well. Read for yourself …
* * * * *
“Just so you know, I haven’t bought coffee beans for the office in a long time because I can’t afford the gas to drive my car across town to Costco. I’d do it for you, but I won’t do it for Ted,” I said, glowering. “I get the rest of our supplies on this side of town.”
“No no, I know, and that’s fine,” answered Weaver, quickly. “I knew that was why Ted started buying the hazelnut-flavored crap.” Weaver and Ted are partners, both my bosses. Weaver and I get along great; better than great: he’s like the older brother I never had. Ted and I get along, but only because I look the other way over the appalling stunts he pulls. Going through Weaver’s desk almost daily, for instance. Charging personal stuff to the business and lying about it, for instance. Leaving every day by 3:30 to go home secretly to watch Oprah, for instance. I have come to loathe the man.
“By the way,” Weaver began slowly. He hesitated, and I looked up from the “World’s Greatest Boss” mug I was washing. He looked suddenly shy, almost sheepish. I stopped washing and turned to look at him. He chuckled self-consciously. “Have you noticed that I’ve been bringing my own coffee every morning instead of drinking Ted’s?”
“Well, yeah — the hazelnut crap, I know. I hate it, too.” Maybe I’ll suck it up and drive out to Costco for the good coffee, I thought.
“No, it’s not that — well, yeah, that too,” Weaver laughed. “It’s…oh, this is crazy,” he mumbled, looking at his feet.
“What?” I asked, my Spidey Sense tingling.
“It’s just that, I don’t…really…trust the coffee.” He let that sink in.
“Yeah. You know the nerve problems I’ve been having, right? Well, it’s been bugging me for a while. Ted gets here three hours before any of us, and…what if he…”
“Poisoned the coffee.”
“YES!” Weaver nearly knocked over the coffee pot. “I mean, I know it sounds crazy — does it sound crazy?”
I thought about it. “It sounds crazy,” I decided. Weaver winced. “But not impossible. I mean, it is Ted we’re talking about.” Weaver looked a little more confident. “But why on earth would you think he wants to kill you?” I asked.
“Because we are named as each other’s beneficiaries on our life insurance policies,” he answered. I gasped.
“Whoa. Is that how it works? Doesn’t that give you each extra incentive to…”
“Yeah, well, it hadn’t ever crossed my mind, until last year.”
“Wait — last year?”
“Yeah, that’s when I started thinking about it. That’s when I started buying a coffee on the way in to work, or bringing a cup from home — didn’t you notice?”
I didn’t answer. My mind was racing, trying to take this all in. Surely it was a big joke, right? A boss telling his employee that he thinks his partner of 20 years might be tipping arsenic into his coffee every morning — crazy. Still…”Oh, thanks a lot!” I blurted out.
“Yeah, I shouldn’t have told you, I’m sorry.”
“NO! I mean, for waiting a year to tell me. I drink his shitty coffee too, you know!”
* * * * *
I have asked Mommypie to publish the following conversation anonymously. The names have been changed, but other than that, it’s a conversation I had with one of my two employers a couple of years ago. It has become an uneasy joke between us.
I don’t have a problem with people knowing who wrote this story, but I don’t want my name linked to it forever on the internet, for obvious reasons.
And just so you know, I no longer drink the coffee, and Weaver and I are not dead.