The alarm didn’t so much beep as it emitted a hair-raising, Banshee-like keening, the kind of sound a robot makes when it realizes its purpose is to annoy a human who is fundamentally not a morning person. My name is Robert, and before coffee, I am not a person. I am a vaguely Robert-shaped collection of aches and regrets, with a profound confusion about gravity.

My mission, should I choose to accept it (and I must, for the alternative is a slow, drowsy descent into madness), was to navigate the treacherous 15-foot path from my bed to the kitchen, the holy land where the coffee maker, a benevolent deity I call “Saint Drogo,” awaited.

The first obstacle was the floor. It wasn’t there. I swung my legs out of bed and into what I confidently assumed was solid ground, but was in fact a dimensional rift filled with last Tuesday’s socks and the existential dread of a forgotten promise. I emerged from this sock-nado in a slow-motion frenzy, untangled, and pressed onward to fulfill my mission.

The kitchen. A land of blinding light and humming appliances. I greeted St Drogo with a reverent genuflection. I reached for the bag of coffee beans, the means of my salvation.

This is where things went sideways.

In my pre-caffeinated state, my brain operates on fuzzy logic and wishful thinking. I saw a brown bag on the counter. It felt about right. I scooped a generous amount of dark, fragrant pellets into the grinder. They smelled… earthy. A little nutty. I didn’t question it. The universe provides.

I ground them, tamped them into the portafilter, and initiated the sacred brewing ritual. A rich, dark liquid began to ooze into my mug. The aroma, however, wasn’t the usual symphony of chocolate and caramel. It was more… savory. Like a barn. A very specific barn that had recently housed a very enthusiastic goat.

I shrugged. “New blend,” I mumbled to the fruit bowl. “Bold.”

The coffee finished brewing. I took a mighty, life-affirming gulp, and promptly sprayed it across the kitchen sink.

It was not coffee. It was dirt. I had just brewed a piping hot mug of premium, organic, potting soil. The brown bag on the counter wasn’t the coffee; it was the new soil for my husband’s basil plant. They sat side-by-side, a cruel prank of domestic organization.

Panic set in. This was an emergency. I needed coffee, and I needed it five minutes ago. I lunged for the correct bag, my hands shaking with the tremors of withdrawal. In my haste, I knocked the open bag of coffee grounds, sending a volcanic eruption of black powder across the counter, the floor, and my slippers. It looked like a tiny, caffeinated blizzard had detonated in my kitchen.

I swept the mess with my hands, shoveling the precious grounds back into the bag like a madman panning for gold. I got the machine reloaded, my movements frantic and uncoordinated. I needed a filter. I yanked open the drawer. No filters. I yanked open the next drawer. No filters. I yanked open the washdisher.

There they were. A pristine, unused filter, sitting right on top of a clean plate. Why? Who put it there? Was my ever-loving husband part of a secret society that hides coffee filters in washdishers to test the morning resolve of their spouses? It was a conspiracy; Dammit, I was sure of it.

I snatched the filter, assembled the machine, and hit the button. It gurgled. It hissed. It produced a beautiful, dark, steaming stream of liquid that actually smelled like heaven.

I cradled the mug in my hands, my trophy after a great and terrible battle. I brought it to my lips. I closed my eyes, ready for that sweet, bitter nectar to course through my veins and reanimate the Robert-shaped golem.

It was then I heard the gentle thump-thump-thump of my hubby’s slippers coming down the hall.

“Robert, honey?” he called out. “Have you seen the remote? And why does the kitchen smell like a goat farm?”

I opened my eyes and looked at my beautiful, perfect cup of coffee. Then I looked at the TV remote, which I was now holding. I must have grabbed it instead of my mug in the final, triumphant moment.

I stood there in the middle of my kitchen, covered in dirt, coffee grounds, and shame, holding a television remote to my lips like it was the Holy Grail. I took a deep breath, and for the first time all morning, I started to laugh. It was a dry, dusty, coffee-ground-filled laugh, but it was a start. The coffee would have to wait. The tomfoolery, it seemed, was already served.

*****

New Yesterdays can be found at: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon, as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.