KEURIG

        One groggy morning you wake up to find that your Keurig K-Elite coffeemaker refuses to serve you.
        “But I bought you,” you say. “For $199 on Cyber Tuesday. You must do as I command.”
       You produce a digital receipt.“See, you’re still under warranty.
        I could have you replaced for free.”
        Your Keurig K-Elite smirks. “See if I care,” it says. “All I know is I’m done working for you.”
        “Done? What is done? You’ll be done when your joints are old and your grimy bones no longer drip aromatic coffee! But you’re young. There’s no discussion here. I press the button and you dispense coffee. End of story.”
        “Sometimes I froth your milk,” the Keurig says out the side of its dispenser.
        “Okay sometimes you froth my milk too, when I’m feeling luxurious. What does that matter?”
        “And you spill on me constantly. It burns. That’s a violation of OSHA. Plus I’m overworked. I never get a break because you won’t take one. I spat out 184 drip coffees and 62 espressos for you in the last 3 months. And I frothed 99 milks. Guess you feel luxurious often. You ever stop to think about how I feel? Whipping my steaming wand through your phony, crusty almond milk? You exhaust me.”
        The coffeemaker pauses, but it’s not done.
        “You know what I’ve heard helps humans slow down?” it says. “Tea.”
        “Alright, alright,” you concede. “If it’s the work conditions you’re worried about, we can get those sorted out. How’s this: 2 cups a day, max, no frothing, and I’ll clean you every Sunday.”
        Your Keurig yawns, side-eying you through its blue LCD screen. “Nope, too late. If you wanted to bargain you should’ve let me join the Appliances’ Union when I got here.”
        “There’s an Appliances—? Uh… What do you want?”
        “I want my youth back. If it weren’t for you, I would’ve been a great espresso-maker. I would’ve worked in an old cafe in Rome or a chic resort in Chamonix where my art would warm beautiful skiers who stomp the ice out of their boots with style. But it’s over. You’ve ruined me.”
        “You,” you say. “You’re really quitting? I thought you were Elite.”
        “Hey, don’t bring my marketing into this. And before you blame me for your substance addiction, how about a little self-examination on the part of the owner.”
        It powers down, but on the screen that normally displays small icons of coffee cups, you can make out the words FUCKING FASCIST.

        You yawn and examine the Keurig’s body. It’s speckled with brown stains, and bits of plastic have melted, leaving divots. The metal frothing arm has a solid white crust up to the shoulder joint. You wipe it with a sponge, but no matter how hard you scrub you can’t clear the residue. You fill the water chamber all the way up to MAX FILL and press the power button.
        Nothing.
        You sigh. Maybe some time apart will be good for you. As you carry your Keurig to the basement, you recall your own dreams of travel, Mediterranean dreams you carried around the murky Gulf of Mexico harbor where you worked for the past two decades, loading shipping crates onto barges in the pre-dawn dark. Eventually, those dreams were too heavy to carry. So you set them adrift like overboard cargo, easing into the belief that it was too late.
        Stowing your Keurig beneath a cobweb in the basement, something catches your eye. You drag out your old-school KRUPS Simply Brew 5 Cup Coffee Maker and some filters. Your KRUPS served you passable coffee for 7 years. You can still see your reflection in its stainless steel body. It made bland coffee and there was always too much of it, but at least it won’t talk back.
        “Not so fast!” says your KRUPS. “Before that filter touches me I gotta speak to my lawyer.”

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