The Olden Times #1

In the olden times …

There was no iced coffee at the drive-thru. Coffee was served two ways: hot and damn hot. There was cream, straight from the teat, nothing non-dairy, and sugar. The only sugar alternative was Sweet and Low. Keep the "low" part in mind because at first, you got the sweet, which was the high, but then you got the bitter, which was the low.

And when they handed you that knock-your-socks-to-the-curb brew at the drive-thru, it was served in a flimsy cup without the protective sleeve. They'd say it was hot, and you'd think, "Well duh." They didn't tell you they were handing you a cup of the devil's piss. You'd pass it between hands, don't dribble on the lap, don't dribble on the lap. Inevitably, a few drops of the liquid flame would jump the brim, creating little brown stains on your Dockers, but never quite reaching your sensitive bits. Sometimes you screwed up the whole operation and got a lap full of brown lava. Most of the time, though, you maintained your sniper's balance long enough to get settled with it. One problem. Here was the real kick in the pants. No cup holders. You had to lock that pure danger down between your legs, or if you were fortunate enough to have a passenger, you made them juggle the cup.

Cars were not designed for comfort or convenience in those days, but they were built for speed, and chugging your butt from point A to point B with maximum casualties in between. On some roads, there wasn't even a posted speed limit. At those times, you were expected to use your best judgment. That was sheer reliance on common sense at a time when paint still contained lead. They should have just posted a sign that read, "We don't really care." No one really did. That's why you got your coffee in a glorified paper cone with no thermal insulation. You'd hold that deadly beverage between your thighs and hope for the absolute best. That's all you could really do in life, clench your butt cheeks together and try to enjoy the ride.

You were flying along at Mach One with Satan's bathwater precariously sloshing back and forth in a cup with a flimsy plastic lid, dumping in sugar packets, trying to open the midget-sized cream containers, which, in an ideal world, would have come with pliers because that foil lid was industrially stamped to the top. Soon enough, you'd get frustrated and puncture the lid with your canine tooth and slowly squeeze in the creamer, never once paying attention to the road or the cars piling up behind you. It was coffee, more important than safety. You got your brew to the consistency and sweetness you desired, but it was still the temperature of Satan's bathwater, so you waited. You waited twenty minutes, and it was the perfect temperature. Waited twenty-one, and it was tepid putrescence. Even then, you still sipped it down, never once wondering what it would be like if it had ice cubes and was served in a sturdy plastic goblet with a stylized "m" on the side. This was not that time. This was not that place.

Sure, when you were at home, you could drop a few cubes in, but tell them to ice it down at the local fast-food eatery, and they'd look at you like you were from Mars, as if iced coffee required a certain archaic alchemy. Somewhere along the way, they found that perfect alchemical reaction, and now we could experience the pure joy of caffeinated bean soup at a deliciously refreshing temperature.