Coffee Connections

"No, mum, there is one with a bird and one in a blue package, I don't see one with a cup on it," I say. I have been walking the aisle of the local supermarket for ten minutes now, trying and failing to find what my mother called 'the only decent espresso here'.

I hear her sigh on the other side of the line.

"No, no, it has to be there," she says in a dramatic voice, "show me the shelf."

It's my turn to sigh. I switch to video call and my mother's impatient face pops up on the screen. She has the habit of holding her phone too close, so it's mostly forehead and eyes. I press the little symbol in the corner to rotate to front camera and instead of seeing me, she can now see the row which holds the supermarket's selection of coffee and tea.

"There!" She exclaims but before I can ask anything further, the screen goes blank. And I don't mean just dark like the battery died or something, but blank, with fuzzy white lines across it like an old-fashioned TV after hours. For a moment I just stare at it. Then I try a few things: I swipe, I press my home button, I try to turn the phone off. Nothing.

"Oh, come on, you piece of garbage!"

A middle-aged man down the next row is pressing buttons on his own device. He seems to be just as successful as I was. He swears at it again and starts shaking it, as if he's hoping that whatever part came loose would fall back into place after a good shake. 

"I think it's a network problem!" I shout across and hold my phone up to indicate that I'm having trouble too. He frowns back at me, clearly holding me responsible for whatever is happening.

A teenage girl in a supermarket uniform wheels in a cart full of plastic wrapped goods. 

"Is your phone working?" I ask her. "There seems to be a problem with the network."

She gives me a blank stare.

"Don't know," she says and proceeds to stock the shelves with new goods. "Not allowed to use my phone during shifts." Her tone tells me what exactly she thinks about this policy and by association about me, since I reminded her of it.

I try to get my phone to work a few more times. The man had moved along but I can see a few other shoppers with frustrated expressions.

"Do you know what happened?" I ask a nerdy looking man with huge earphones hanging uselessly around his neck.

"Looks like a hack," he says and shakes his head. "Good thing I keep nothing on my phone, nothing important anyway."

I stop in my tracks.

"I... I do," I stutter. "I have everything on my phone!"

He gives me a sympathetic smile.

"Nothing to do now," he says, "but if it's any comfort, they are probably not after the small fish."

He walks away and I stare at my phone again. All my passwords are in there, in random notes and password protected but I guess it won't be difficult for a professional to get to them. My banking app, my emails, all kinds of other apps with my credit card linked to them, all there. I take a deep breath and try not to panic. I'm a small fish, I repeat to myself, just a small fish.

I look around the supermarket and suddenly understand that older guy’s anger towards me. I want to blame it all on this supermarket, on the narrow, over-stuffed shelves and the grim employees. In fact, this whole neighbourhood, no this whole town is at fault. I should have persuaded my mother to move to the city with me years ago. She would be close and I could go grocery shopping for her after work and take her for walks. We would still have lunch on Sundays but I would bring her freshly ground coffee from the deli instead of having to rummage for some no name espresso brand in a backwaters supermarket.  

I try to fix the blank screen a few more times as I rant silently in my head. I wish for my old phone back, the one from the early days, when one could take the battery out without needing a special tool and a degree. Finally, I accept that there is nothing I can do. I slide the phone into my pocket and I turn back to the girl in the supermarket uniform.

"I'm looking for this espresso brand," I start, "it has a cup on the packet." 

She doesn't even look at me, just shrugs. I huff in frustration and walk away. Did I need anything else from this place? I don't remember anymore and my basket is full and heavy. I consider getting just any brand but then resign to not getting anything. My mother must survive without coffee this week. I make a mental note to buy my favourite brand from the city next week and stock up her cupboard. Also, I will dig out the topic of moving to the city again, although I know it will be painful. She can be so stubborn.

I’m halfway by the tills when something flashes in my side vision. The girl is unwrapping a tray of coffee packs with a white espresso cup printed on each one. Without even waiting for her to put them on the shelf, I snatch one right off her hands. It startles her and she drops the rest from the tray. One packet pops open and the coffee powder dusts the floor, the shelves, the girl's crisp uniform. I look at my own clothes. There isn't even a sprinkle on them and I feel suddenly elevated. I grip the packet of 'the only decent espresso here' like it's something I went to war for, and walk victoriously towards the tills.

By the time I reach my mum's house, the phones are working again.