Mr. Coffee, Mr. Spock, and Grandpa Munster.

I haven't written in a bit cos circumstances haven't permitted it, but this is an entry for our writing group. The topic this time is "Coffee".

Looking back, it’s hard to tell whether Mr. Coffee was a fat, bald, sniveling asshole or I was a snotty little punk-ass kid. I’m guessing it was at least a little of both. I was definitely a dumbass little snotball. But I’m reasonably certain that if I were to run into Mr. Coffee today, he being the same guy he was then and me being the guy I am now, the man would still be a ridiculous penis. Mr. Coffee was the principal of my high school that I attended in St. Paul for about 4 or 5 months before they finally kicked me out. I spent a fair amount of time in his office, looking at him scowling at me as he sat behind the name plate on his desk that read “Mike Coffee”. He bore a remarkable resemblance to Mr. Carleson on WKRP in Cincinatti. If you don’t know what WKRP is, Google it. Screw it, after you Google it go ahead and watch a few episodes. WKRP was a comedic gem amongst the terrible situation comedies of the late 70s. 

While I’m at it, I’ll mention that one of the secretaries in the office at that school looked a lot like Mr. Spock and another one totally looked like Grandpa Munster. What made it even funnier was that both of those secretaries were women. While my best friend and I at the time would sit in the office waiting to get suspended by Mr. Coffee, we would giggle our asses off as we made up possible back stories about how Mr. Spock and Grandpa Munster became women who worked in the office at our high school. We were pretty goofy. Plus, we were always really stoned. It would be funnier than hell until the door that said “Mr. Coffee” on it would open and we’d be called in separately to face our fate. Our fate really didn’t seem like that big of a fuckin deal but it would make us temporarily quit giggling all the same.

I seem to remember this scenario unfolding at least once a week: I’d go into Mr. Coffee’s office where he’d impotently chide me for not being in school the day before, whereupon he’d doom me to exile from the campus for the rest of the day. He’d ask me my grandmother’s phone number (my legal guardian at the time), he’d dial it, and then he’d hand the phone to me so that I would have to explain to her that I was in big trouble. He’d never talk to her first though, so I’d just let her answer the phone and I wouldn’t say anything. “Hello?”, she’d say in her sweet, grandmotherly voice. I’d remain silent. “Hello? Hello?”, she’d repeat until she’d give up and hang up the phone. “She’s not home”, I’d tell Mr. Coffee with a shrug, after which he’d tell me to leave the premises. I’d go across the street and wait for my buddy to pull the same trick and come and meet me, then we’d get stoned and drink coffee at the diner up the street and giggle about stupid shit until it was time to go home and get bitched at by our folks.