“No no no no no no no,” a coffee cup in Markham, Ontario said in growing desperation early this morning, as the man who had just purchased him and his contents of hot, perfectly-brewed, delightfully-nuanced, and addictively-caffeinated beverage, carefully placed him on the roof of a Subaru before climbing in the car, shutting the door, and turning the ignition.
“Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit. I knew it, I knew it. This guy had ‘careless coffee killer’ written all over him. Hey. Hey!! Buddy!! IT’S YOUR COFFEE TALKING! Remember, the whole reason you parked here, got out, stood in line, waited, complained about waiting, and then walked back to your car? I’M ON THE ROOF YOU IDIOT! You have an empty receptacle specifically shaped TO MY EXACT DIMENSIONS RIGHT BESIDE YOU! Oh Bean oh Bean oh Bean he’s backing up.”
In the time it took the Magnetite Grey Forester to reverse out of the parking space and make its way through the rows of cars to the exit, the coffee cup filtered rapidly through the seven stages of grief.
“This isn’t happening! He’ll stop. Surely he’ll stop. He isn’t stopping. Oh my Bean why? This is all my fault. I should never have stuck to Joe, who was actually the next cup in the stack. Dammit it should be Joe up here, not me! Dear Bean. If you help this man remember he has a cup of coffee on the roof of his car, I will never complain about being disposable again. I swear. Oh who am I kidding? There is no Bean! We enter this world as pulp. We leave this world as pulp. Despite all my rage I’m still just a jar on a car.”
And then, as the sensible automobile driven by an unconscionable man departed the parking lot and came to a stop at a traffic light, the cardboard container did the only thing there was left to do (other than fall off the roof at a rate of speed): He made his peace.
“Dixie Christ cup. Pull yourself together. What did you think? That you were just going to stay jammed between Joe and Jim in that beautiful stack forever? No one is that lucky.”
As the light turned green, and the car accelerated purposefully off the line – with nothing but open road and unpoliced speed limits ahead – the cup took a good look around. He put out his imaginary arms, the ones he would have throttled that dipshit driver with if he’d only been able, and embracing the wind whistling through his lid he shouted into the suburbs.
“Black no sugar here I come bitches!!!”